In Memory I
by becka
Summary: Slash. What if someone followed Hagrid the night he delivered Harry to the Dursleys? How would Harry's life have been different? AU that follows Harry as he grows up with the abusive Dursleys, and continues to his time at Hogwarts.
1. Book 1, Chapter 01: Child Forgotten

Title: In Memory I

Author: Becka

Pairing: DM/HP, SS/HP

Warnings: Angst. AU. Child-abuse. Dark. Language. NCS (non-graphic). Slash. Violence.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to Becka; characters are used without permission for a non-profit purpose. No infringement is intended.

o

It was late in the night that Hagrid arrived at Privet Drive, carrying a tiny, sleeping bundle. Blue eyes watched cautiously from the shadows.

They watched as the Headmaster of Hogwarts spoke softly to the half-giant and an older woman. It was impossible to hear what was being said, but as the bundle was left on a Muggle doorstep, it became clear what was going on.

It seemed impossible that the Dark Lord had been banished. Impossible that the child had survived the Killing Curse. Impossible that the child had _lived_.

Blue eyes narrowed.

Impossible, but nonetheless true. The boy would be watched.

o

When Harry was a baby, he liked to play like any normal child. Dudley Dursley liked to play too, but he did not like to share. He pushed the other boy away whenever Harry took an interest in any of his shiny toys. Harry never had any toys, not even when Dudley's toys broke; they were stashed away in the second bedroom on the top floor.

When Harry was a baby, he smiled and gurgled laughter like a normal child. Petunia Dursley hated him. In the beginning, Petunia feared her sister's _unnatural_ friends would show up to check on him, and so she grudgingly took care of him along with her little Duddykins. She changed his rags distastefully and fed him quickly, preferring to spend her time with her own little angel.

When Harry Potter was a baby, he was naturally curious like any normal child. Vernon Dursley hated him. In the beginning, Vernon feared the boy's _unnatural_ protectors would show up to check on him, and that was all that kept him at bay. The temptation to beat the brat was there, but he did not act.

As Harry grew older, from a toddler to a young child of three, so did Dudley. And Dudley still liked to play, though Harry no longer had time to think of anything so childish as he was busy folding clothing or scrubbing floors. Dudley liked to play with his cousin, pushing him around and beating on him as he'd seen his father do. "Harry Hunting" was born.

As Harry grew older, from a baby to a three-year old, he slowly stopped smiling. He seldom laughed, and usually did so only when his relatives were out of earshot. Petunia, still wary that her sister's disgusting friends might show up, began to test her limits. She started the boy doing chores, and unless he did the simple tasks well, she forgot to feed him.

As Harry grew older, he was still curious. Vernon, still wary that the freaks might pop in for a visit, began to test his luck. He would occasionally cuff the boy for being too curious. Occasionally slap his naughty, wandering hands. Occasionally snap one of his ruddy little fingers.

When Harry turned six, Dudley came to the conclusion that of all the toys he had, he liked to play with Harry best. More than any television show or video game, he loved "Harry Hunting." And when Harry grew too fast for Dudley to catch alone, he found other, quicker boys in the neighborhood to do it for him.

When Harry turned six, Petunia was relieved to find that her sister's bizarre friends wouldn't be making any appearances. The list of chores grew, and sometimes she forgot to feed him, even when he did manage to get them right. Harry never complained, but then, he never really spoke much anyway.

When Harry turned six, Vernon came to the conclusion that the freaks were not showing up anytime soon, and he found every excuse to beat his wayward nephew. Curiosity was top on Vernon's list, and he took a sort of sick pleasure in beating the unnaturalness out of Harry. He didn't need a reason to kick the boy in the side, burn him with the stove, or break whatever bit of Harry happened to be in his way. Sometimes, in the dead of night, he made his way to Harry's cupboard and had the boy suck him off, nice and slow.

Harry, for his part, was an unusually somber child. He didn't cry or fuss, and he rarely spoke, even when spoken to. He was very tiny, his growth stunted by malnutrition, but because of the work his Aunt made him do, he'd begun to develop wiry muscles. He was extremely intelligent, and he taught himself to read with books that he found stashed at the back of his cupboard; Dante's Inferno was his favorite.

Harry almost never smiled, and he didn't laugh. In the same regard, he didn't cry because he'd learned that tears served little purpose. His eyes were bright green, which contrasted vividly with his pale, almost lucid skin. He looked like some sort of fey creature, unearthly, inhuman, which gave his Uncle Vernon a perfectly good excuse to beat him on the days he'd done nothing wrong.

Harry often sported black eyes, as well as a motley patchwork of bruises - black, purple, and yellow - on his arms and chest. His back was horribly scarred from the occasions Uncle Vernon used a belt, and his legs were usually blotchy red from when Aunt Petunia grew impatient with him during meals and spilled hot water on him.

Harry could skillfully cook and clean, and he could fix just about anything. He usually did the shopping, and his arms no longer trembled under the heavy weight of the bags that he carried home. He knew how to sew, which insured that while his clothes might not fit, there were never any holes in them. His fingertips were scarred from when he was still learning how to use a needle, and his tiny hands were callused and rough from gardening and working on the shed.

Harry had had more broken bones then there were bones in his body, but for some reason he could never puzzle out, they healed both straight and fast after they were set. Uncle Vernon called it unnatural, and would often break them again just to make that point. Harry's throat was usually sore, but the water he drank from the hose in the garden helped a little. Twice his Uncle Vernon had done more than fuck his mouth, but thankfully he healed up quickly from that as well.

Over all, no one noticed Harry much, unless they wanted him to do something. He wasn't happy, but then he couldn't ever remember a time when things were different so he tried not to let it bother him too much.

o

For six years, the Death Eaters watched. They watched as the Boy-Who-Lived grew from a toddler to a young child. They watched, hidden in the shadows, of his treatment at the hands of filthy Muggles. They watched him clean the house and cook the meals of the very people who abused him. They watched him carefully, noting the bloody cuts and stained bruises on his arms and face, the only skin not hidden away by oversized castoffs.

They watched and reported what they'd seen, always wondering if any of their information would bring them the answer they sought: how had the child defeated their Dark Lord?

o

Harry's tiny hands moved deftly as he weeded the garden. It was late, almost ten o'clock, and the Dursleys had already gone to bed. He'd been ordered to finish his work in the garden, no matter how long it took.

He sensed, rather than saw, the two men who stood in the shadows, and he glanced up. His eyes were tired, haunted, and not those of a normal six year old.

He stared at the men for a moment, barely able to distinguish them from the darkness. He didn't know who they were, but they'd watched him from the time he could remember. Men, women, dressed in black robes with masks that covered their faces – he couldn't recall a time when they hadn't stood in the shadows.

It wasn't as though he was afraid of them. They'd been with him his entire life, after all. But sometimes he felt a tiny spark of curiosity. He didn't act upon it, because curiosity was one of the things his Uncle Vernon had been trying to beat out of him.

The men shifted a little. Uncomfortably, or so Harry thought. Perhaps he wasn't supposed to look at them?

With an imperceptible shrug, he turned his eyes back to the garden and continued to work.

o

A few days passed. Harry was once more in the garden, squinting at the weeds. Uncle Vernon had cuffed him soundly that morning, and he'd been having trouble focusing his attention ever since. As a result, he'd accidentally broken one of the plates he'd been cleaning, and he'd been beaten.

The men in the shadows shifted.

Harry wondered if they were curious about the bruises on his arms, or his black eye. He wondered if they were like the demons he'd read about in one of the books he'd found in his cupboard. Even if they were, he didn't think they were like his Uncle Vernon, and Uncle Vernon was the only person who frightened him.

He glanced up from the weeds, and the men stopped shifting. As he stared at them, he found himself smiling. Perhaps they shifted because they were bored; it wasn't as though watching him tend the garden was very exciting.

_/ Ssstupid men, /_ a tiny voice whispered.

Harry glanced down. A garden snake had slithered by his hands and was staring at the men in the shadows. Hesitantly, he asked, _/ Why are they stupid? /_

The snake turned its angular head toward him abruptly, and Harry heard one of the men inhale sharply. He ignored it, focusing his attention on the tiny, green snake.

_/ You ssspeak my wordsss, young one! / _the snake said, clearly puzzled.

_/ Is that strange? /_ Harry asked softly.

_/ Perhapsss. There hasss not been a ssskin-brother for many yearsss. /_

Harry offered his hand to the creature, and the snake's tongue flickered, tasting his skin. Slowly, the snake slithered up his wrist, coiling there.

In the shadows, Harry heard the men shift again.

_/ Why are the men stupid? /_ he asked again, raising his arm so that he and the snake were eye-to-eye.

_/ They ssstand in the shadowsss, alwaysss watching but never acting. They wish to know your ssssecretsss, but they do not asssk, /_ the snake replied.

_/ I don't have any secrets, /_ Harry said simply. _/ What's your name? /_

_/ Ssso polite for a hatchling. /_ The snake sounded pleased. _/ My name isss Sssamssson. /_

_/ Strength in the darkness, Samson. /_ The words came to Harry unbidden, and he didn't know why he spoke them save that they sounded right. He glanced at the restless shadows. _/ Perhaps the men are shy. Shall we talk to them? /_

Samson hissed softly, _/ Asss you wish, ssskin-brother. /_

Harry stood, mindful of the tiny snake, and brushed the dirt from his knees. He walked to the shadows, to the men, and said politely, "Samson said you wanted to ask me something."

The two men glanced at each other, but their white masks revealed nothing of their expressions. The taller of the two stepped forward, kneeling so that Harry could see two brilliantly blue eyes. The voice that spoke was like silk, refined and beautiful – a far cry from Uncle Vernon's harsh grunting.

"What is your name, child?" the man said softly.

"Harry," he responded in the same tone. "But I'm not a child."

The man spoke again, a hint of amusement in his voice. "If you're not a child, what are you?"

"An unnatural freak, a waste of space, and a good fuck." Harry listed the things his relatives called him without malice.

Both men let out a hiss of surprise, and Samson whispered, _/ Ssskin-brother, what did you sssay to them? /_

_/ The truth, /_ Harry replied, puzzled.

_/ Ah, /_ the snake said wisely. _/ Men do not want truth, ssskin-brother, and mossst fear it. /_

Harry tilted his head to the side and asked the man in front of him, "Is that right?"

"Is what right?"

"What Samson said," Harry responded.

The man's eyes flickered to the snake, then back to Harry. His voice seemed strained. "What did he say?"

"He said that men don't want the truth, and that most fear it. You can't understand him?" Harry's free hand moved to gently stroke Samson's head, and the snake made a pleased sound.

"There are very few Parselmouths in the world. It's a rare gift," the man said, but Harry noticed that he did not answer the question. He let it go, simply because the man obviously didn't want to talk about it, and if his shadows did not want to speak, it wasn't his place to press them.

"What's a Parselmouth?"

"One who can speak to snakes." The man's eyes seemed to search his own for something, and the silence stretched. Finally he asked, "Do you believe in magic, Harry?"

Harry considered the question, then shook his head. "I don't believe in anything, sir."

The other man, the one who still stood in the shadows, blurted, "How did you know we were here?" From his squeaky voice, and the narrowing of blue eyes in front of him, Harry got the impression he wasn't supposed to have asked that.

"You've been here all my life," Harry answered quietly. "You've always been watching, but I didn't know what you wanted. Samson said you wanted to ask me about my secrets, but I don't have any and I thought I should tell you that."

Again, silence stretched as the men seemed to think about what he'd said.

"Have you told anyone about us?" Blue eyes searched his own, and the man's shoulders relaxed when Harry shook his head.

"Why would I tell anyone about my shadows?" Harry asked.

The man in front of him laughed softly. It was a beautiful sound, not at all like the braying of his relatives.

There was a soft rustle from the shadows, and before Harry knew what was happening, the man in front of him stood and twirled, pulling out a thin stick from the folds of his robe. "_Stupefy_!" he said, pointing the stick towards the source of the sound, and there was a strangled noise as another man in black robes fell forward into the light.

"Merlin," the man muttered.

"Crabbe." Blue eyes glanced towards Harry, then the man knelt, pointing his stick at the body and murmuring something. Crabbe groaned, and sat up.

"What were you thinking?"

"Sorry, Lucius," Crabbe replied softly. "You and Peter were due back fifteen minutes ago. I was sent to make sure everything was all right."

Samson tightened around his wrist and hissed, _/ More ssstupid men with their ssstupid sssticksss. /_

_/ So it seems. Do you know how many shadows I have? /_ Harry asked.

Before Samson could answer, Crabbe exclaimed, "Merlin! He's a Parselmouth?"

Lucius turned his blue eyes towards Harry. "Indeed. It seems there is much we don't know about young Harry. But first..."

The older man swished his stick, murmuring a few words too softly to be heard, and a peculiar warmth spread inside of Harry; the blackness that teased the corners of his eyes cleared from his vision. He glanced down and saw that his arms were no longer so badly bruised.

Harry regarded the three men silently. Finally he said, "I have to finish weeding. Goodnight, shadows."

He turned and knelt in the grass once more. An hour passed as he finished his work, and when he glanced into the darkness again, his shadows were gone.

o

The next day, Harry took a thin branch from a tree when he was gardening and smuggled it into his room. During the night, he used a knife from the kitchen to shave it, carving it into a simple copy of the stick that Lucius had used.

It was curiosity, an ugly habit, which led him to do so. That pressed him to point the stick at one of the spiders that infested his cupboard and murmur "_Stupefy_."

And, curiously enough, the spider fell from its web, twitching on the ground. He absently fed it to Samson, all the while playing Lucius' words over in his head.

Do you believe in magic?

Do you believe...?

No, Harry thought to himself as he stunned another spider at Samson's request. No, he didn't believe in anything. Not right and wrong, not good and evil, not God nor the Devil himself. He might be young, but he knew that such lines didn't exist.

Dudley was thought to be a considerate, polite young boy by his parents. But considerate young boys did not beat their cousins, even if the cousin in question was an unnatural freak.

Aunt Petunia was thought to be a generous, loving woman by the neighborhood. But generous women didn't starve their charges, even if said charge was a waste of space.

Uncle Vernon was thought to be a good man by the community. But good men did not hold their nephews down and tell them to beg like sluts, even if said nephew was a good fuck.

Whichever way that Harry looked at it, good and bad were just meaningless words. They were applied depending on who spoke them – not who they were spoken about. With that in mind, how could he believe?

o

"Tend the garden, boy. You can sleep when you're done." Vernon punctuated the remark with the blur of his fist against Harry's face.

The thin stick he'd tucked into his sock pressed against his leg as he stumbled. Harry wondered if "Stupefy" would work on his Uncle. Even if it did, he supposed there was no point in using it. It would only give the man another reason to hurt him.

He trudged out to the garden, nodding politely to his shadows. They hadn't spoken since that night – was it a week ago? A month, perhaps? He didn't keep track of the days.

Harry did take some comfort that the men hadn't left after he'd told them he didn't have any secrets. He didn't know why they stayed, but he'd grown accustomed to having them around.

It was a surprise when one of the men moved to sit beside him as he worked. He glanced into blue eyes, face hidden behind the stark white mask, and recognized Lucius.

"Hello," Harry said as his fingers continued to work, deftly plucking a particularly stubborn weed from the ground.

"Harry." The man greeted him simply.

"Are there other spells besides Stupefy?" Harry asked, curiosity getting the better of him. Absently, he wondered if the man would beat him, recognizing the unnatural trait for what it was.

"What?" There was a hint of surprise in the voice.

"You used Stupefy on that shadow. I was wondering if that's the only spell that works with your stick." If it was, Harry still thought it was a useful spell, and Samson enjoyed having his dinner brought to him. The snake was coiled around his neck now, which was the easiest way for Harry to carry him.

"Wand," the man corrected absently, his eyes studying the young boy. "There are other spells as well, depending on what you want to do."

"Like what?" Harry asked, dividing his attention between his work and the conversation.

"Simple spells like Wingardium Leviosa, to levitate objects. Counter-spells like Enervate, to counteract Stupefy. Unforgivable spells like Crucio, to cause pain." Lucius' words were carefully chosen. Harry nodded, coming to the conclusion that there were spells for everything.

"Will you teach me?" Harry asked softly.

"I cannot." Lucius replied. "You are too young to control the spells, and you don't have a wand."

Puzzled, Harry turned his head to stare at the older man. "But I made a wand, and Stupefy worked when I used it."

The man started. He seemed to mull over what had been said, then requested simply, "Show me."

Harry pulled up his baggy pant-leg, tiny fingers curling around his wand. His eyes scoured the garden until he found a spider spinning its web between two plants. He pointed and murmured, "_Stupefy_."

The spider dropped from its web, and Harry reached over and plucked it up. He offered it to Samson, who hissed out a thank you, and smiled a little when the snake's body moved against his neck as he ate the offering.

"Impossible," Lucius murmured, more to himself than to Harry. He turned his masked face to Harry, then extended his hand.

Harry relinquished his wand without protest, and waited as the man examined his simple creation.

"Cast it without the wand," Lucius ordered, and he sat in silence as Harry did. Samson graciously accepted another spider.

The older man made a gesture with his hand, and two more shadows came forward, kneeling in the grass beside them. Lucius began, "Harry has asked to be taught. Every night that he comes to the garden, whoever is here will instruct him-"

One of the men interrupted, "But-" Harry recognized the squeaky voice as Peter.

Lucius held up a hand, and Peter fell silent. "As I was saying, whoever is here will instruct him. Everyone will be informed, and you will work out a schedule to teach him Magical Theory, Magical History, Curses, Hexes, and Charms, Herbology, Transfiguration, Divination, and Potion Theory. Is that clear?"

Again, Peter protested, "But... why?"

Lucius' voice sounded amused, and something passed among the three of them as he answered cryptically, "For the moment, consider him our Lord's prodigy."

The two men murmured their consent, something like dawning wonder in their voices.

o

And so it was that every night thereafter, Harry learned. He never questioned why he was being taught. He never wondered why his shadows needed wands to show him their spells, when he only needed to raise his hand. And he never spoke of what he'd learned to anyone besides his teachers.

He came to know them by the sound of their voices, by the color of their eyes, connecting the names he overheard to each of them. He never called them by name, though, preferring the simplicity of referring to them as his shadows.

Lucius was one of his strictest teachers, drilling him mercilessly in all things. The man pressed him to his limits, but Harry never complained. It was enough for him that they taught him, because they treated him like he was one of them. He'd never been a part of something before.

Crabbe and Goyle usually worked with him together, instructing him in Curses, Hexes, and Charms. It was through them that Harry unknowingly learned how to combine different types of magic, mixing a hex with a spell and coming up with something else entirely. Their praise was more than enough to keep him experimenting.

Zabini taught him about plants that he'd never seen before. Most days he was brought books with pictures, but sometimes they'd bring an actual sample of certain specimens. Knowing the properties of the plants often helped him when Avery taught him the theories and makings of potions.

Parkinson (though once she'd told him her first name was Genevieve) instructed him in the imprecise art of Divination, and Harry found he was surprisingly open to what she showed him. She was ecstatic, telling Lucius that Harry's inner eye had enough potential to be that of a true seer, whatever that was. Regardless, he enjoyed reading palms and cards, and would practice on his other shadows.

They were his constant teachers, but many other men and women would spend time with him in the night as well. Even a year after he'd begun his learning, shadows he'd never met before would stop in to give him specialized lessons.

Peter was one of the few who didn't specifically teach him. Harry thought it was strange, but on the nights Peter was present, he usually just wanted to talk. He talked about a Dark Lord, a Master, and the ideals that the man had fought for. Some of them Harry agreed with, and some of them he didn't. They often debated about certain issues, and over time, other shadows joined them.

One night, Peter had said that Muggles were inferior to wizards. It seemed like a deep-rooted conviction for the older man, but Harry had argued that Muggles weren't necessarily inferior. He'd argued that they were just a different type of wizard, governed by science instead of magic; different was not inferior, he pointed out, because if it was, were his shadows inferior to him because they needed wands and he did not? Lucius had joined the conversation, seemingly materializing out of nowhere, and pressed him to explain about science, so he had.

After that, Peter's nights became meetings. All of his regular teachers would come by to listen, sometimes joining in the arguments, sometimes bringing up new issues. Harry liked those nights best, because his shadows listened to what he said. They made comments and argued, and sometimes he convinced them of his ideas, and sometimes they convinced him of theirs, but they _listened_.

Uncle Vernon never listened to Harry. Especially not on the rare occasions when Harry said, "Stop," or "Please," or "Don't."

That was another reason he'd grown so close to his shadows. They never pressed him about what the Dursleys did to him. If he came to the garden with bruises, they healed him, and in doing so, taught him to heal himself. They never asked uncomfortable questions; it was as though his life in the house didn't exist in the garden.

On his seventh birthday, Lucius gave him a ring. It was a simple, silver ring, shaped like a serpent biting its own tail.

It was the first present Harry had ever gotten.

"Thank you," Harry said, staring up into the fathomless blue eyes he'd come to trust.

"It's not much," Lucius offered, his humility at odds with his cool voice, "But it reminded me of your Samson."

"I've never gotten a present before," Harry confided softly, still staring at the ring. He didn't see the flash of surprise in Lucius' eyes, or the hint of sorrow.

The next night, his shadows threw him a belated party. They all brought him small tokens, books about his favorite subjects, like _One-hundred and One Horribly Complicated but Extremely Useful Potions_, and _Advanced Dark Arts through the Ages_. Crabbe brought him a trunk to hold all of his gifts, and showed him a spell to shrink it so his relatives wouldn't find it. Goyle gave him a heavy emerald cloak with a silver clasp, and showed Harry how to charm it so that it looked like his own ratty blanket for when winter rolled around. And Peter gave him a broom.

Peter had told him stories about a wonderful sport called Quidditch, and Harry had once said that he wished he could learn to fly.

"How do I use it?" Harry asked, reverently running his hands along the hilt of the broom and over the shining letters that read Nimbus 1996.

"You might not be able to use it yet," Peter said. "Hold your hand over it and say, 'Up.'"

"Up," Harry repeated after he placed the broom on the ground. The handle smacked into his palm and he smiled. Without warning, he swung his leg over and kicked off, ignoring the startled exclamations from his shadows.

It was a brilliant feeling, flying. He soared, thirty, fifty, seventy feet in the air. With the wind against his face, he impulsively spread his arms wide, gripping the handle of the broom with his thighs.

There was freedom there. A freedom he'd never felt before, with his arms spread like wings and the cool air singing in his ears. He used his legs to steer as he made lazy loops and sharp turns, and a bubble of foreign laughter tore from his throat.

When he glanced down, he saw his shadows waving up at him frantically. Belatedly, he remembered they didn't have brooms. He veered down sharply, grabbing the hilt as he flattened his tiny body against the stick.

The ground spiraled up to meet him, and he heard Lucius cry out in alarm, but before the older man could do anything, he pulled up abruptly, inches from the grass.

He hopped off the broom, still smiling, and stared into the wide eyes of his shadows.

"Thank you," he said to Peter. His tone was reverent, enough to convey all of his feelings in those two simple words.

"Merlin," he heard Peter muttering, and there was a hitch in his breath. "Just like James. So much like James."

Before any of the others could do anything, Lucius had swept him up in a warm, velvet embrace. It was the first hug Harry had ever been privileged to, and it surprised him.

He heard Lucius murmur, "No one could have caught you if you fell."

"I know," Harry replied as Lucius gently put him back on the ground.

"Merlin," Goyle exclaimed, "You were brilliant, Harry!"

His other shadows stepped up. They all held him, for a time, telling him that he'd frightened them. Demanding to know if he'd flown before, when they all knew he hadn't.

That night had marked a change in his shadows. Before when they taught him, there was formality and a sort of frigidness. After his birthday, it melted away, and his shadows often hugged him before they left. They sometimes brought sweets to his lessons, and seeing as Harry had developed a fondness for Chocolate Frogs, they used the cards that he collected to aid in teaching him about famous wizards of the past.

During the winter, Harry was ordered outside every night to shovel the sidewalks and the driveway, to sprinkle salt on the ground, and to dig out Uncle Vernon's car. After the tasks were done, his shadows would set up a sort of heated dome for them to work in.

When his birthday came around again and he turned eight, they threw him another party. They gave him more books, parcels of candy, charmed jewelry, and gorgeous black and green robes. Peter, tears in his eyes for some reason, presented him his own golden snitch.

It was then that Harry realized how selfish he must seem. His shadows had been so kind to him, and he'd given them nothing in return.

Right after his birthday, in his precious few hours to himself, he implemented his plan. He took a small piece of parchment and wrote the names of all of the teachers he could remember. He charmed his quill to trace the names and write down the birthdays of each.

Aided by a package of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans, he used all of his knowledge to come up with gifts that his shadows would enjoy. He transfigured one jelly into a small silver serpent with glowing green eyes that would hiss if anyone but Lucius touched it, anchoring the spell so that it would be impossible to remove. He made a tiny cauldron that bubbled with liquid green as a silver spoon stirred it endlessly for Avery. He made matching silver rings for Goyle and Crabbe, and charmed them to glow a pale green whenever they were within a few feet of each other. And he created a minuscule silver snitch that hovered in place for Peter.

His parchment showed him that Lucius' birthday was only days away, so he waited patiently. On that night he presented his gift to his favorite shadow.

"Happy Birthday," Harry said simply, handing the tiny silver serpent to Lucius.

The older man's eyes grew wide, and he touched the metal creature reverently. There was a question in his eyes as turned to stare at Harry.

"I transfigured it and charmed it so it'll hiss at anyone who touches it except you. I anchored the spell, so it should stay the same no matter what." Harry shrugged self-consciously. "I know it's not much."

"_Anchored_ the spell?" Lucius asked, apparently still stunned.

"Yes." Harry's eyes widened. "It's okay for me to do that, right? I know you didn't teach me how, but I figured you'd get around to it sometime..."

"Harry," Lucius murmured, dropping to his knees and pulling the boy into a welcomed embrace, "It's not possible for regular wizards to anchor spells. It can't be done."

"Oh," Harry said, voice muffled by the velvet robes. "It just seemed... the natural thing to do."

Lucius' laughter conveyed he was both pleased and proud. "My Lord's son is magnificent."

"Son?" Harry's brow furrowed, and he tilted his head to the side. "Did you know my parents?"

The blue eyes were immediately somber. "The truth is... complicated."

"Most men fear truth," Harry replied softly. "Will you tell me?"

Lucius sat on the ground, pulling Harry closer to him as he began to speak. He told Harry of a young man named Tom Riddle. "Riddle," the older man murmured, "changed his name to Voldemort. He was a brilliant man, a powerful man, and his ideals were mostly good. His methods, however, were madness."

Harry nodded. "And my parents? They didn't die in a car crash, did they?"

"Merlin, no!" Lucius' eyes narrowed. "Those Muggle relatives of yours are either very foolish or very afraid."

"Both, I think," Harry said.

"Your parents were James and Lily Potter. Your father was the Heir of Gryffindor-"

"One of the four houses of Hogwarts," Harry supplied, nodding.

"Indeed. Voldemort – my Master, the Dark Lord – knew of this. He destroyed the Heirs of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, and went after your father. You'd only just been born, then." Lucius' eyes flickered to the shadows, and Peter stepped forward hesitantly. He sat beside the pair, wringing his hands together nervously.

Lucius continued softly, "Peter was a friend of your father's. He was also a servant of the Dark Lord. He betrayed your parents, and is directly responsible for their deaths."

Harry glanced at Peter and frowned.

Peter whispered softly, "I am sorry about that, Harry. At the time, it seemed like my only option."

"What happened then?" Harry asked, putting thoughts of Peter aside for the moment.

"The Dark Lord found and killed your parents. He tried to kill you. Do you remember what I taught you about the Killing Curse?"

"The Unforgivable?"

Lucius nodded. "He used that curse on you. But something... went wrong. It backfired, leaving you with that scar-" At this, long, pale fingers gently brushed the locks from Harry's forehead, touching the lightning-shaped scar. "We don't know how it happened. But whatever did happen... it transferred part of our Lord into you. He was a Parselmouth, as well. Now, it seems, you are both the Heir of Gryffindor, and of Slytherin."

"All of you followed Voldemort, then?" Harry asked curiously, wondering about the rest of his shadows.

"We did." Lucius responded. "All of your teachers were his followers, known as the Death Eaters. When our Lord first came to power, he was different. He fought for many of the ideals that we've discussed. But his power was corrupted, and he led us to become something we did not want. I don't have a problem with killing people who deserve to die, but he had us murder children. He had us murder innocent men and women whose only sin was their unwillingness to join him."

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely," Harry quoted, remembering one of the Muggle books he'd read. "Why didn't you stop him?"

Lucius let out a shuddering breath, and beside them, Peter echoed the sentiment. "He was too powerful," the older man said simply. "He would torture those who failed. He would kill those who disobeyed. And those who betrayed him? He wiped out entire families for that infraction."

Peter inched forward, leveling his face with Harry's, and behind the white mask, Harry saw a deep self-loathing in the plain, brown eyes. "I'm sorry, Harry. I was too weak to stand against him... Lily and James were two of my best friends, and I betrayed them. My life is yours."

Harry nodded, accepting the declaration in stride. "Why did you teach me? Why tell me this now?"

"At first, we watched you because we wanted to know how you'd done it," Lucius responded. "How had you destroyed our Lord when no one else could? That night, when I heard you speak to Samson, I realized that however you'd done it, there was a part of our Lord in you. We taught you because... because despite what he'd become, the Dark Lord was a great man. And all that's left of him is in you."

Peter spoke up hesitantly. "It seems crazy to say it, but you... you do remind me of him. Before he changed, I mean. And all of us, the Death Eaters, have come to respect you. Love you."

Harry blinked, his world shifting, and all of the pieces seemed to click together inside his head. "You want me to take his place."

Lucius nodded slowly. "When you are ready. We don't want the reign of terror that our Lord brought, but there is no one left who fights for what we believe. The Ministry is riddled with ridiculous rules, and many officials have been so corrupted by their own power that much of what needs to be done will _never_ be done."

A small smile curved Harry's lips as he said, "I don't think they'll take me very seriously."

Lucius' voice was amused. "You are the most extraordinary wizard I've ever met, Harry. You are the Heir of two great houses. You can perform wandless magic, a feat that was only ever theorized. You can use magic in ways never thought possible, and you can do _more_ with your gifts than the entire Ministry combined."

"I'm eight years old," Harry pointed out logically.

"You will have us to train you for three more years. You've already surpassed what is taught in most seventh-year advanced courses. By the time you get your Hogwarts letter, you'll have surpassed many of your teachers, myself included."

"Why bother going to Hogwarts, then?" Harry asked.

"Because Hogwarts' library is renowned." Lucius said softly, in a voice that Harry recognized as his classroom "I've-given-you-what-you-need-so-figure-it-out" voice.

Harry paused thoughtfully, and he spoke slowly. "I'll be able to pass the courses easily, giving me plenty of time to read through Hogwarts' library. With that sort of knowledge, I'd be able to do anything."

"And by your seventh year, you will be seventeen. Old enough to be taken seriously. And with enough supporters - converts by your own hand at Hogwarts, as well as all of the Death Eaters - we can finally remake the Ministry," Lucius concluded.

The three sat in silence for a moment as Harry realized how unbelievably dedicated Lucius was to his cause.

"Take off your masks," Harry said quietly. He understood the importance in them – they were one of the many ties to Voldemort that the Death Eaters still clung to. And if everything that Lucius told him was true, it was time to let go of those ties.

Hesitantly, Lucius and Peter pulled back their cowls, removing the white masks that Harry had become so accustomed to.

Lucius' long blonde hair fell gently around his angular face, cool blue eyes staring at Harry with something akin to trepidation. Peter's somewhat more homely face carried the same expression.

"Your masks are Voldemort's," Harry said, noting with keen interest the way both men winced. "Your name, the Death Eaters, is Voldemort's. What else connects you to him?"

Wordlessly, both men rolled up their sleeves. Harry stared curiously at the skulls that seemed to be burned into the flesh of their forearms.

Something prompted him to reach out and touch his hand to Lucius' mark. He could feel the darkness in it, leeching, spreading, and without really knowing why, he reached out for that power with his mind and pulled it, just as he would pull a weed from his garden.

Lucius gasped, cradling his arms. There was something akin to wonder on his face as he touched his own fingers to the pale, seamless skin where his mark had been. He watched as Harry repeated the process on Peter.

"My Lord," Peter said.

Harry shook his head. "Not yet. I'm not your Master."

Lucius stared at Harry, reaching out to touch the scar on his forehead. "Who are we, then?"

"You're my shadows," Harry said simply. And with his words, Lucius and Peter realized they'd been witness to the true beginning.

o


	2. Book 1, Chapter 02: Recollection

Title: In Memory I

Author: Becka

Chapter 2: Recollection

o

Today was the day, or so Harry thought. Today was his eleventh birthday, and soon he'd be away from the Dursleys and on his way to recreating the wizarding world at large.

The clock struck twelve, midnight. It was official.

Lucius knelt before him, warm arms encircling Harry in a gentle embrace. His blue eyes were alight with pride as he said, "Harry Birthday, Harry."

His other teachers, his followers, his shadows, echoed the sentiment. Harry wasn't concerned about the noise – he'd long since learned that a silencing spell was cast around the garden every night.

The Dursleys' backyard was crowded with former Death Eaters. Looking around at their smiling faces, Harry found himself smiling a little as well. He knew all of them by name, having long since removed the masks and the Dark Marks from each of them personally. Instead of black, regulated robes, his shadows wore whatever colors they felt suited them best. Predictably, Lucius had chosen to remain in black.

As Lucius stood, Peter knelt to take his place. His arms were a bit stiffer than Lucius', but he was still having a difficult time coming to grips with forgiveness.

After the revelation that Peter was responsible for the deaths of his parents, Harry had done a lot of thinking. He'd found that he couldn't fault the man. Peter had been under Voldemort's influence at the time, had been trapped between two paths, and had made a bad choice. Harry had never known his parents, but Peter had been with him for nearly all his life.

Harry knew people made mistakes; he also knew that unless they were forgiven, nothing would ever really change. In the end, how could he not forgive Peter? The man had placed his life in Harry's hands after all.

They'd talked, and Harry had learned the full story. How Peter had been grateful that Sirius Black was the Potter's Secret Keeper, how he'd been horrified to find that Sirius wanted to switch with him, how Voldemort had found out somehow, how the information had been tortured out of him, and how, in his darkest moments, he'd followed through with Voldemort's plan to frame Sirius and condemn him to a life in Azkaban.

Harry vowed that the first thing he'd do was find a way to remove his godfather from Azkaban, and make things right between him and Peter.

Of course, that discussion had led to Harry's animagus training, and again he'd defied the laws of magic by taking on two separate forms, one of which was a magical creature. Lucius had been delighted to discover this, and had told Harry that only Merlin himself had been able to take on the form of a magical creature.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," Peter whispered, and the arms around him tightened. There was a tremble in Peter's voice, and he choked, "You look so much like James; he would have been so proud."

"Thank you," Harry replied, and for a moment he let himself go and returned Peter's embrace.

It was a celebration like none Harry had ever witnessed. Each of his shadows knelt before him, putting them on level ground. They hugged him, murmuring "Harry Birthday, Harry," and all the dreams and hopes they'd hung on him sounded clearly in their voices.

And the gifts!

He already had his schoolbooks, all of which had been handed down to him by his teachers. The secondhand books were cherished by him – his book _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self Protection_ was embossed with Lucius' name, the older man's scrawled notes in the margins; Peter had gifted him with his _Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_, and had managed to find Harry's father's copy of _A History of Magic_; his _Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ and _Magical Theory_ were from Crabbe and Goyle; Zabini had proudly handed him a tattered copy of_ One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_, as well as _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_; Avery's _Magical Drafts and Potions_ was almost falling apart.

It didn't matter that his books were used, because they'd been used by the people most precious to him.

But on top of the books he'd be expected to have for his first year, all of his shadows had brought him advanced tomes so that he could continue his studies. Staring at the daunting piles of books, he'd been stunned and asked where he could possibly store all of them.

It was then that Crabbe and Goyle came forward. They had brought him a special trunk to replace his old one – six separate keyholes lined the top, and each opened into something different. The first keyhole was for his robes. It was here that his shadows' house colors had shown through, because he'd been gifted beautiful dress robes of red and gold, green and silver, yellow and black, blue and gray.

The second and third keyholes were for his personal effects, gifts from his shadows over the years, etc. The fourth opened to a warded jewelry box where he could store his enchanted rings, pendants, and clasps.

The fifth had revealed a staircase, and when he'd gone down he'd been delighted to find a room very similar to a dungeon. The shelves were lined with all manner of potion ingredients, both legal and illegal. He'd spotted several cauldrons in the corner, all shapes and sizes, and it even looked as though one of them was solid gold.

The sixth keyhole had been the true surprise. Another stairwell, which led to a small study. Ebony shelves lined the walls, and his shadows had laughed as they stacked all of his books inside the room, telling him he could organize and reference them when he had the chance. There was a desk in the center of the room, and when he'd peeked into the drawers, he'd found them overflowing with parchment, inks, and quills. Everything had been carefully labeled so that he could tell which ones were enchanted.

Even more stunning was that his shadows promised to look out for any books he might be interested in, and send them throughout the school year. Harry had come to the conclusion that by the time they were satisfied with his library, it would rival that of Hogwarts!

As his shadows happily chattered amongst themselves, Lucius pulled him aside, kneeling again so that he could look into Harry's eyes.

"The years have passed too soon for my liking," the older man murmured, a smile on his face. "And yet I find there is still so much I need to tell you."

"Do you fear truth?" Harry asked softly.

"No," Lucius responded, running his hand through Harry's mop of hair affectionately. "I no longer fear truth. But it saddens me that I have to let you go. You are truly our Lord, Harry, but you are also our child."

"Tell me, then," Harry responded gently.

"Many of us have children of our own, Harry. Children we have raised to love and respect you as we do. Some are first years, like yourself. Some are older. Some will not go to Hogwarts for several years to come." Lucius smiled again. "Many are Slytherin. Some are Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. But no matter what house they are sorted into, they will be loyal to you."

Harry nodded.

"You must purchase a wand and use it, if only for the sake of appearance. Every gift you have that is not public knowledge is an advantage to you."

At this Harry smiled. Lucius was Slytherin, through and though.

"Those of us in Slytherin put in a petition last year," Lucius continued softly. "Until this point, the only familiars allowed in Hogwarts were owls, cats, or toads. We've insured that you may take Samson with you."

Harry's face broke out into a wide smile. Samson, currently dozing around Harry's neck, had been his companion since the beginning, offering support and advice. He would have missed his snake.

Again, he was struck by how much Lucius and his shadows gave to him. Beyond their gifts, at every turn they tried to make his life easier. They put so much thought into loving him and asked so little in return that he could do no less then make their dreams reality.

"Ah, Harry," the older man said, pulling him into a fiercely protective hug, "It's a wonderful feeling - a terrible feeling - when a child you love grows up. I find myself twice blessed and twice cursed, because when my son leaves tomorrow, I know it will feel like this."

"Thank you," Harry said softly. "I would have been honored to be your son."

"You are my son, my Lord, in all but blood." Lucius eyebrow raised, and there was a hint of humor in his voice. "Though I find myself hard-pressed to imagine you and my Draco growing up together -" The silky voice broke off suddenly. There was a pause before the older man said softly, "I will miss you, Harry."

"Lucius."

Lucius blinked and pulled back a little. Harry had never addressed one of his shadows by name before.

"Harry?"

Without speaking, Harry reached forward, pressing his hand lightly against Lucius' arm. Lucius hissed softly; Harry's hand rested where his Dark Mark had once been burned.

Instinctively, Harry pulled a tiny strand of power from himself and let it flow into his shadow. Lucius gasped as Harry removed his hand; a thin lightning-shaped mark shimmered beneath the pale skin.

"My Lord," Lucius said, bowing his head.

Harry slipped one of his hands under Lucius' chin, tilting his shadow's face up. There was a smile on the boy's face, full of love and respect. "You are the first, Lucius. Peter is the second. You shall each choose one of my shadows, give them my mark, and they will be the next."

"_Harry_." The older man's voice was awed.

"As you are connected to me, they will be connected through you. And their shadows will bring shadows until we achieve what we set out to do." The smile on Harry's face was radiant. "We're a whole, Lucius. Voldemort tried to tie everything to himself, but I can't do that. Shadows in darkness know only each other, and that's the way it has to be."

Harry extended his hand, pulling his first Shadow to his feet. The older man seemed stunned.

"I have to see Peter, now," Harry said, his eyes truly alive for the first time in years. "But perhaps you might see if your son will invite me over for Christmas break?"

Laughing, Lucius tousled Harry's hair once more. "I don't quite know if the wizarding world is ready for you, Harry. But I think it will be a pleasure to find out."

o

The next morning, Harry took in the day's mail, searched through it, and found his letter from Hogwarts. He slipped it into his back pocket, where he'd already placed his trunk and broom after he shrank them. Samson curled contentedly around his neck.

Aunt Petunia had just woken up and was walking down the stairs when she saw Harry. She glared at him, "Slacking off already, you pathetic lump? Go make breakfast."

Slowly, Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said politely. "But I've just gotten my letter from school, and I'll be leaving today."

The older woman's mouth flapped comically, wide open, but no sound was forthcoming. Her face turned bright red as she finally managed to shriek, "VERNON!"

Harry sighed, knowing the conversation was going to be... unpleasant. He wished he could simply put the Dursleys behind him without a second thought and use the portkey Lucius had given him to the Leaky Cauldron. He never intended to come back, though, and he had to make things right with his relatives.

"Boy!" Vernon bellowed from the top of the stairs. Petunia was shaking and cowering behind him, her white-knuckled fingers clutching Vernon's shirt like a lifeline.

"How _dare_ you bring that abnormality into my house?" Vernon stomped down the stairs, each footfall rattling the plates that were aesthetically arranged on the walls. The racket apparently woke Dudley, who poked his pudgy face around the corner curiously. Sensing that Harry was most likely going to be beaten, he let out a squeal and followed his father down the stairs.

"I'm not bringing anything into your house, Uncle Vernon," Harry said softly. "I'm simply letting you know that I'm leaving, thereby relieving you of the unnatural freak, the waste of space, and the good fuck."

Vernon went red at Harry's last words, and Petunia stared at him, momentarily forgetting to be frightened.

"I'll not having you talking such _trash_ in my house, boy," Vernon growled, ripping the belt from his round waist as he advanced on Harry. The belt lashed out, slicing deeply into Harry's cheek.

Harry touched the wound, looking at the fingers that came away bloodied with detached, almost clinical interest.

"If you fear the truth, then I leave you your lie," Harry said sadly. He pointed one of his fingers at the Dursleys and murmured a quick "_Obliviate_."

"You do not have a nephew named Harry Potter," he said softly, looking at their slack faces. "He died in the same car accident that killed his mother and father. The last eleven years, you have lived quite happily as a perfectly normal family."

Reaching for his portkey, he paused. Glancing at Petunia, he said, "Take good care of your garden, please. It holds some very fond memories for me."

To Vernon, he added, "I'd appreciate it if you'd board up the cupboard. It wasn't much, but it was mine."

Noticing that their faces were showing the first signs of awareness, he touched the portkey, the silver serpent ring that Lucius had given him so many years ago, and activated it.

When the Dursleys came around, Dudley demanded his breakfast. Neither of his parents paid him much attention, which infuriated him to no end. For some reason his mother was muttering something about needing to get an early start on preparing the garden for winter, and his father was headed to the shed to pick out a few sturdy sheets of plywood and a handful of nails.

o

The din around him was deafening, wizards flitting between tables at they chatted and drank their butterbeer. Self-consciously, Harry flattened his bangs against his forehead. Lucius and Peter had told him how the wizarding world viewed their precious Boy-Who-Lived, and he wanted to remain a nonentity for as long as possible.

Of course, being dressed in Muggle clothing was no help at all, and he slipped away to the loo, enlarging his trunk and pulling out one of his black school robes. He changed quickly. As an afterthought, he murmured a healing spell on the cut on his face. The scar it left was faint and didn't bother him.

After re-shrinking his trunk and checking to make sure the purse of galleons Lucius had given him was securely hidden in his robes, he made his way to Diagon Alley.

His movements jostled Samson, who hissed sleepily, _/ Ssskin-brother, calm yourssself. /_

_/Sorry, /_ Harry replied, too softly for anyone but Samson to hear him. _/ I just... I feel as though, after this, there's no turning back. /_

_/ After thisss, there isss no turning back, /_ Samson replied, amused. _/ But you are prepared, and your shadowsss have faith. /_

His snake's quiet reassurance calmed him immediately. _/ Thank you, Samson. /_

_/ My pleasure, ssskin-brother. /_

First stop on Harry's list was Ollivanders. He zigzagged through the crowd of wizards and entered the tiny building whose sign read, "Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C."

The shop was dingy and poorly lit, but Harry had spent his life learning in the darkness; he was comfortable there. His eyes easily made out the figure stooped over the desk, aged fingers plucking at a Dragon's Heartstring.

"Hello, sir," he said politely, taking another step into the dreary shop. "Perhaps you could fit me for a wand?"

Mr. Ollivander glanced up, squinting at him curiously. "Name?"

"Harry Potter, sir."

The man didn't seem at all surprised. He nodding curtly, grabbing a small measuring tape from the cluttered desk before advancing on Harry.

"Which hand do you use?" Mr. Ollivander asked.

Harry blinked. He'd never really thought about it before, because his magic worked with both hands. He settled on an appropriately cryptic response: "It depends, sir. I can write with either."

The man's brow rose sharply, but all he said was, "Curious."

Mr. Ollivander took measurements of both of his arms, then had him spread his hands, noting their span and the length of his fingers. With a surprisingly spry step for such an old man, he darted around the room, plucking a series of slender boxes from the shelves. He opened one, offering its contents to Harry.

Harry tentatively reached for the wand, and stood uncomfortably, unsure of what he was expected to do.

The wandmaker rolled his eyes and said, "Well? Swish it around a bit, child!"

Resisting the urge to tell the man he had never been a child, Harry did so, sweeping the wand in a graceful arc. It felt unnatural in his hands.

Before he could comment, Mr. Ollivander had already taken the wand back from him and was shoving another into his hands. Every time he waved one of the older man's creations, Harry was struck by how very wrong they felt. He wondered if it might be easier to create a play-wand, as he had done so many years ago.

"A very tough fit," the older man muttered. "But perhaps...?"

He walked to the very back of the shop, disappearing from Harry's view for a moment. When he reappeared, he held an old, wooden box. With a strange gleam in his eyes, Mr. Ollivander presented the box to Harry.

As Harry took it, he felt a strange tingle run through his fingers. The warmth spread into his hands, creeping up his arms, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. He opened it without a thought, fingers curling possessively around the sleek wand.

With an elegant arc, rainbow sparkles erupted from its tip like miniature fireworks, illuminating the room with an iridescent light. Harry was enthralled. The wand's hilt fit into his palm as though it had been molded with him in mind.

"Interesting," Mr. Ollivander said, eyeing Harry with something like respect. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. And that wand is meant for greatness. Though it is curious..."

"What's curious?" Harry asked, his fingers memorizing the sanded holly.

"Every wand has a core, be it a phoenix feather, a dragon heartstring, or a unicorn hair," Mr. Ollivander said. He continued softly, "The phoenix who gave up the feather in your wand also donated another, Mr. Potter. Just one. And I find it curious that this wand should be yours when its brother gave you that scar."

Harry's mouth curved up a little. If a part of Voldemort had been transferred into him, as Lucius had theorized, then it made sense that they would share brother wands. He mentally noted to pass that bit of information to his first Shadow as soon as possible.

"Thank you, sir," Harry said softly. "How much do I owe you?"

"Nine galleons," Mr. Ollivander replied.

Harry paid the wandmaker, thanked him again, and slipped out of the shop. He headed towards Eeylops Owl Emporium.

_/ He knowsss much, ssskin-brother. Perhapsss, later, you will ssspeak with him again? /_ Samson hissed softly from his perch around Harry's neck.

_/ What happened to 'stupid men and their stupid sticks'? / _Harry asked, amused. Belatedly, he realized his wand was still in his hand. He picked up a pebble from the ground and transfigured it into a holster, similar to the ones he'd seen Lucius and Peter wearing. He attached the holster around his wrist and slipped his wand into it.

With a flick of his wrist, his wand slid into his hand. Satisfied that the holster was securely attached, he anchored the spell and slid the wand back into place.

_/ Mossst men are ssstupid, ssskin-brother, /_ Samson replied, _/ Mossst, but not all. /_

_/ True, /_ Harry replied. _/ Most men are ruled by fear. You taught me that. /_

The snake preened, pleased. _/ My ssskin-brother isss wissse to remember. /_

_/ Better to have you, / _Harry murmured fondly. _/ You remind me when I forget. /_

Their conversation was cut short as Harry arrived at the Owlery. His shadows had suggested that he purchase an owl, in case he ever needed to reach them. There were other methods, of course, but an owl would raise the least suspicion.

As he stepped through the barred doorway, he was immediately overwhelmed. The trio of owls on his left hooted, and the sounds they made twisted in his ears to form words.

**{Another wizard-child, come to stare,}** the small gray owl hooted indignantly.

**{Or to buy, as if they understood our true import.}** Harry turned his head to the snowy white owl and blinked.

**{Too young to buy, this one.}** The brown owl sounded resigned.

**{If he pokes at me, I shall nip his fingers,}** the gray owl responded.

_/ Samson, /_ Harry hissed, surprised, _/ I understand them. /_

**{A Parselmouth! In this day and age?}** Despite the din from outside, the snowy white owl picked up his soft hissing with ease.

_/ Indeed? /_ Samson replied, startled. _/ Can you ssspeak with them asss well? /_

**{Bloody serpents!}** the brown owl hooted. **{Imagine, a wizard-child bringing one of _their_ kind in here!}**

**{I'd really appreciate it if you refrained from insulting Samson,}** Harry muttered, thinking about how much the creature sounded like Aunt Petunia. He was surprised when the words came out of his mouth as a clipped series of hoots.

The response from the owls was deafening, as every owl in the building flapped their wings. Harry was grateful that the owner of the shop didn't appear to be around, because he believed he'd be kicked out for upsetting the owls so. Their startled hoots blurred together, asking him how he could speak with them and demanding he tell them at once.

**{Silence.}**

The hooting died down immediately, and Harry turned to stare at the most beautiful ebony owl he'd ever seen. All of her feathers (for Harry was positive the lovely creature was female) were black, save a single pure white feather at the tip of each wing.

**{The featherless one might find it easier to speak without you drowning him out,}** she stated calmly once she'd gained their attention.

**{Er. Thank you,}** Harry said politely. **{I don't know how I understand you. It feels the same as when I speak with Samson.}**

The owls hooted, denying any affiliation with serpents, but the black owl cut them off again. She flew down from her perch and landed on Harry's shoulder. Her claws were sharp as they dug into his skin, and she was quite heavy.

He dismissed the pain as inconsequential, and he refused to bow under her weight. After a moment, she nipped his ear, and though she did not speak, he felt that she was pleased.

Samson hissed curiously, _/ Isss thisss the owl you want, ssskin-brother? /_

_/ Perhaps, though if she chooses to stay, it will be her own decision, /_ Harry replied softly. He didn't voice the thought to the owls; his Uncle had trained him better than to ask for such a favor.

**{My name is Hedwig, featherless one. I have decided you are fit to be my wizard, despite your age.}** There were several hoots of protest, but they fell silent under Hedwig's stony gaze.

Harry felt the words in his heart, and spoke them because they seemed right. **{My name is Harry, beauty, and I am honored that you would choose me.}**

Hedwig made a pleased sound. She confided, too softly for the other owls to hear, **{It will be nice, I think, to speak with one who does not gossip.}**

Before Harry could respond, a large man stepped through the door. Dark eyes noticed the black owl perched on the boy's shoulder, and a quirky smile turned his lips. "Deemed you worthy, has she? You'll be wantin' to buy her, I suspect."

"I would, sir," Harry replied. "Are you the shopkeeper?"

"Indeed I am, boy. Just had to nip out for a moment, but you look like you've done right enough on your own. Whatever'd y'do to get that one's attention? Most stuck up gal of the bunch," the man, Mr. Eeylop if Harry had to guess, concluded fondly.

"I don't know," Harry said lightly, "But I feel like she understands me."

The owls tittered, and he heard a deep rumble of amusement from Hedwig.

"Good trait, that," the man said as he gathered up a perch and box of mice. "Sometimes I feel like they can understand us, if y'know what I mean. Anyway, that'll be fifteen galleons for the lot."

Harry paid without question, murmured a soft thank you, and promptly shrank his purchases when he was sure no one was looking.

**{Aren't you going to your wizard-school to learn magic?}** Hedwig asked, surprised.

**{No,}** Harry replied, veering back to the Leaky Cauldron. **{I'm going to revolutionize the world.}**

**{Indeed? Then I think I'll be most happy to accompany you. This world is too comfortable with itself.}** Hedwig nipped his ear, and somehow Harry felt that though they'd only just met, she was fond of him.

_/ What did she sssay to you, ssskin-brother? / _Samson hissed, adjusting his body so that his tail was as far from the owl's claws as possible.

_/ The truth, /_ Harry replied happily.

_/ A bird who speaksss truth? /_ Samson mulled over this for a moment, then muttered, _/ Your shadowsss were right. You will change thisss world. /_

With a small smile, Harry carried both of his familiars into the Leaky Cauldron and booked a room for the three weeks before school began.

o

Harry stood at the platform of 9 ¾, for all appearances silently waiting for Hogwarts Express to arrive. In reality, he was listening to a heated conversation between Samson and Hedwig, and it was only years of self-control that enabled him to do so without smiling.

After realizing what a bother it would be to constantly translate for his familiars, he'd spent the better part of a day creating a spell that would enable them to speak with each other. Thanks to his schooling in Magical Theory, he'd succeeded, and had been delighted to find that the pair of them got along wonderfully.

There had been a bit of tension in the beginning, but after they'd gotten over their initial hang-ups, they found that they had a good deal in common. Hedwig's dry humor and Samson's biting wit were evenly matched.

_/ I'm telling you, you sssilly featherbrain, there'sss absssolutely nothing wrong with a diet of ssspidersss. It'sss better than that thossse mice you ssseem ssso fond of! / _Samson hissed.

**{Have you ever tried any of my mice?}** Hedwig asked logically.

The snake had the decency to look chagrinned.

**{Well, I have tried your spiders, thank you, and while they're not bad, I think you should expand your diet.}** To Harry, she hooted, **{And you spoiling him doesn't help.}**

Wisely, Harry refrained from taking sides.

"Um. 'Scuse me?"

Harry glanced at the owner of the voice, a dark-haired boy with a round face. The boy was just a bit taller then Harry was, though not older, and his face was very red. He seemed to be uncomfortable.

"May I help you?" Harry asked, examining the newcomer.

"Um. I lost my toad, and I was wondering if you'd seen him," the boy said shyly.

"What's your name?"

"Neville," the boy replied. "Neville Longbottom."

Ah, Harry thought to himself. The Longbottoms. Lucius had told him that they were very brave people who'd fought hard for what they believed in, but that two of them had ended up in St. Mungo's because of Voldemort. Harry figured they were probably this boy's parents.

Harry turned around, eyes scouring the platform, and he discreetly whispered, "_Accio_ Neville's toad."

The toad flew out from behind a nearby pile of trunks, but Harry caught it easily. He turned around, presenting the toad to Neville.

"I found him hopping near the tracks earlier," Harry said softly.

"Oh! Thank you!" Neville's face beamed. "Um, I didn't catch your name..."

"LAST CALL FOR HOGWARTS EXPRESS!" An enchanted voice boomed out, causing the entire platform to rumble. "ALL ABOARD!"

Harry nodded politely to Neville before slipping onto the train. He found an uninhabited room towards the back and slipped inside. He contemplated restoring his trunk to its normal size, but decided against it.

The train jerked forward, slowly at first, but gaining in speed. Hedwig fluttered off of his shoulder and perched on the armrest near the window, though Samson chose to remain around Harry's neck, hidden beneath the collar of his school robe.

The door slid open, and Harry blinked as a young boy walked in as if he owned the small room. Two other, slightly larger boys flanked him. The silver-blonde hair and the gray-blue eyes made Harry's mouth curve up into a tiny smile. The boy couldn't be anyone but Lucius' son, Draco.

Harry took a moment to study him, noting that his posture was very similar to that of his first Shadow, and the aristocratic sneer was a dead ringer for the one the Lucius' used during Harry's childhood lessons. It seemed as though the blonde boy was _trying_to project the same image as his father – not the man Harry had come to respect, but the façade that Lucius wore for the wizarding world.

Perhaps, Harry mused, the air that the blonde presented was a façade as well? If so, Lucius had certainly raised Draco as a Slytherin.

The other boys bore a striking resemblance to his teachers, Crabbe and Goyle, save the scowls on their young faces. Another façade?

"Oh," Draco drawled, "I didn't think there was anyone in here. Mind if we join you?"

Harry inclined his head. The three boys filed dutifully into the room and sat on the opposing bench. It didn't seem like they knew who he was, and there was a stretch of silence as they studied him.

"I'm Draco Malfoy," the blonde boy said finally.

"Vincent Crabbe," the taller of the two boys said.

"Gregory Goyle," the other concluded.

"Pleasure to meet you," Harry replied, extending his hand to the younger Malfoy.

Draco reached out and took his hand, and as their fingers met, a strange electric shock passed between them. Harry noted that Lucius' son had a firm, steadfast grip. His soft hand contrasted with Harry's rough, callused one.

Before Harry could introduce himself, Hedwig hooted softly, **{This wizard-child is dangerous, my featherless fledge. He has the potential to be a great asset to you... or a deadly enemy.}**

"That's your owl?" Draco asked. At Harry's nod, his face softened a little, the unguarded innocence there wiping away the sneer. "She's beautiful."

"Thank you," Harry replied. "Her name is Hedwig."

"Hedwig?" Draco's nose scrunched up. "Odd name. What's it mean?"

Thankful that his owl had told him the origins of her name, and Harry replied, "Hedwig was a twelfth century German saint."

"What's a saint?" Draco asked. Though Crabbe and Goyle hadn't said a word after introducing themselves, Harry saw that they were paying close attention to the conversation.

"It's a Muggle term," Harry explained. "Basically, it's someone who's recognized as being virtuous."

Draco's sneer returned, full force. "You're not a mudblood, are you?"

"My mother and father were a witch and a wizard," Harry replied. He remembered that Lucius had been quite adamant about Muggle-born wizards being less than Purebloods in the beginning. It had taken several conversations before the older man admitted that he'd been wrong.

Still, it made sense that Draco would hold true to those beliefs. It wasn't as though a known Purist fanatic could suddenly go around singing the praises of Muggle-borns without someone getting suspicious. Or perhaps Lucius had kept Draco purposefully ignorant, preferring that Harry teach the blonde boy personally?

Harry decided that whatever the reason for Draco's ignorance, he'd best begin to educate the other boy immediately.

"Why?" Harry asked in a misleadingly innocent voice. "Is there something wrong with being Muggle-born?"

"Of course there is!" Draco replied heatedly. "They shouldn't even be allowed to go to Hogwarts! They're not real wizards at all."

"Why?"

"Because they aren't," Draco said, as if it was self-explanatory.

"If the ability to do magic is all it takes to be a wizard, then I'd have to disagree." Harry's voice had a steely undertone. "Unless there's something else that wizards have that I'm not aware of."

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it. Finally he said petulantly, "Most of them don't even know about magic until they get their letter."

"They go to Hogwarts to learn. That is the purpose of a school, isn't it?"

"But-"

Harry cut Draco off with a wave of his hand. "Do you know everything that's going to be taught at Hogwarts?"

"Well, no-"

"Then you can't fault them for not knowing." Harry's raised his brow. "After all, you were raised in the wizarding world, and even you don't know."

"He has a point, Dray," Vincent said quietly.

Draco glared at his companion, a hint of red on his cheeks. "Whatever," he said, dismissing the conversation entirely. Harry let it drop; the seeds had been planted, and he knew Draco would give them some consideration.

Vincent's soft statement seemed to break whatever self-imposed silence he'd been under, and the scowl abruptly vanished. "Do you play Quidditch?"

"I haven't had much of an opportunity to," Harry replied. "But I do love to fly."

"Got your own broom?" Draco asked, once again interested in the conversation. "My father promised to send me the newest model for my birthday next year."

"I have a broom," Harry said softly, fondly remembering the day Peter had presented him with the Nimbus 1996. It was no longer a top-of-the-line model, but he still loved it.

He felt a bit guilty, though. In the three weeks that he'd spent at the Leaky Cauldron, he hadn't been able to resist the impulse to purchase the Nimbus 2000. He ached to try it out.

"I don't see why first-years aren't allowed to have their own," Draco continued. "And I can't believe we can't play Quidditch for our house team until second-year. Know what house you'll be in?"

"I'm not sure," Harry replied. "I'd be happy to be in any of them."

"Even _Hufflepuff_?" Gregory exclaimed, clearly surprised.

"Each house has its own strengths," Harry said softly. "Cunning for Slytherin, intelligence for Ravenclaw, bravery for Gryffindor, and loyalty for Hufflepuff. How could loyalty be considered a bad thing?"

"True," Vincent mused, ignoring the startled looks his two companions gave him.

After a moment, Draco nodded slowly. "I never really thought of it like that before. My whole family was Slytherin. I always thought Hufflepuff was the house for people who didn't fit into the other three."

Harry shrugged. "It's only an opinion."

Vincent glanced out the window. "How long do you think it'll take to get to Hogwarts?"

"Probably another hour, at least," Gregory sighed. He fished into his robes and pulled out a thin book. Harry glanced at the title: _101 Charms to Help Your Housemates_.

"My father gave it to me before I left," the youngest Goyle explained at Harry's look. Draco and Vincent also fished some reading material out of their robes, and seeing that Harry didn't have anything to read, Draco slid into the space next to him, silently offering to share.

They settled into comfortable silence, and the time seemed to fly. Harry and Draco had just finished the third chapter of _A History of Misunderstood Curses_ when the train came to a screeching halt. It only took Harry a moment to collect Hedwig, but before he could leave, Draco called out, "I never did catch your name."

Glancing back at Draco, Harry let a wicked smile that would have made Lucius proud cross his face. "Harry," he replied. "Harry Potter."

He turned, his robes billowing around him as he made a graceful exit, leaving his three newfound friends sputtering in surprise.

o


	3. Book 1, Chapter 03: Subconscious Duality

Title: In Memory I

Author: Becka

Chapter 3: Subconscious Duality

o

As everyone crowded past the train's exit, Harry heard a booming voice call out, "Firs' years! Firs' years over here!"

Harry spotted the owner of the voice with ease. The man was probably a half-giant by his looks, and he easily towered over the students. He called out again, "Firs' years, follow me! Mind yer step!"

The first-years were herded together, and led down a long forest path. It was slippery and dark, and several of the young students lost their footing. Finally, the narrow path opened onto the edge of a huge lake, and it was during this procession that Harry caught his first look at Hogwarts. Oh, he'd seen pictures of it before in his books, but none of them did the magnificent castle justice.

The castle was perched atop a high mountain on the other side of the lake. With its skyscraping towers and elegant arches, it made a striking picture against the blacking sky behind. Tiny pinholes of light shone through its many windows, illuminating the lake in front of it with an eerie glow. Something about the building called to him, and the wind kicked up, whispering sweet promises of the future.

Harry felt as though he'd come home.

"No more'n four to a boat," the man called out, gesturing to the fleet of boats that bobbed merrily at the edge of the lake.

Quietly, he hooted to Hedwig, **{Care to do a bit of exploring while I get sorted?}**

**{I think I will,}** she replied, nipping his ear. It was a gesture he'd become accustomed to, her own way of greeting and goodbye. With a powerful flap of wings, she launched off his shoulder, startling the students around them.

_/ I will wait until we get inssside thisss place to explore, I think, /_ Samson muttered as he snuggled further beneath Harry's robes.

_/ Lazy, /_ Harry whispered affectionately.

_/ But warm, /_ Samson agreed.

Harry found an empty boat and climbed in. After a moment, Draco joined him, still flushed. Neville, the boy whose toad he'd found at the station, followed, and a gangly redhead with freckles filled the final spot.

The redhead stuck his hand out to Neville and grinned, "Ron Weasley. You?"

"N-neville Longbottom," the shy boy stuttered. They shook hands briefly before turning their attentions to Draco and Harry.

"You're the boy who found my toad at the train station!" Neville exclaimed, forgetting his bashfulness momentarily.

Harry nodded. Before he could respond, he noticed Draco's expression out of the corner of his eye; the blonde boy was glaring at Ron with unconcealed hostility.

"Draco Malfoy," he said coolly. "My father told me all about the Weasleys – red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

Ron's angry flush was plainly visible. "Malfoy, was it? Well, my father's told me all about _you_. He said _your_ family's nothing but a bunch of dark wizards who hide behind their fortune."

Draco sneered. "At least we have money, Weasel."

"That's _Weasley_, you slimy-"

Harry cleared his throat politely, and both boys turned to stare at him. "Excuse me," he said, "but have you ever even _met_ each other before?"

Ron blinked. "Um... no."

"Then why are you basing your opinions off of what other people said and making biased assumptions?"

Draco frowned, clearly torn. On one hand, his father had raised him to be extremely selective about the sort of wizards he associated with. On the other, he'd been taught to revere, respect, and even love the name of Harry Potter.

The red-haired boy flushed again, staring morosely at Harry. The strange boy's voice reminded him of his mother whenever she told him not to judge a book by its cover. But dark wizards were evil! There were no two ways about _that_, and Malfoys were dark wizards, weren't they?

Harry fell silent, studying their reactions. Both Ron and Draco were sullen, and their twin expressions reminded him of Dudley. Dudley wore that same face whenever he'd been denied something that he wanted.

Dudley's face, screwed up in anger, flashed through his mind. _The click of his cupboard door opening, and Vernon's frown – "Now Dudley," he'd said, "I know you want to play with Harry, but it's Daddy's turn." Dudley's subsequent scowl – "But, Daddy!" Vernon's glower – "No buts. You can play when I'm through."_

Harry had been ten years old.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the unwanted images away. Vernon and Dudley no longer remembered him. It didn't matter.

Beside him, Neville had shifted uncomfortably.

Abruptly, the half-giant's voice boomed out again, "Everybody in? Right then. FORWARD!"

As the boats magically steered themselves, gliding across the opaque surface of the moat, all conversation ceased. Perhaps it was the atmosphere, or perhaps it was the thought of being allowed into such a beautiful building, but the silence only served to heighten the suspense.

The boats docked, and the first years were led into an underground harbor. It only took a few moments for everyone to clamber out into the rocky alcove, and the half-giant herded them up a flight of stone steps and to the entrance of the grand castle. Two huge doors loomed ahead, and after making sure there weren't any stragglers, the tall man reached out his hand and knocked three times on the castle door.

Harry sensed an undercurrent of magic as the doors swung open, and a regal, black-haired woman stood proudly on the other side. Her hazel eyes narrowed as she perused the newest editions to the school.

The half-giant greeted her, "Professor McGonagall."

"Hagrid," she replied politely, then added, "The Headmaster wishes to speak with you before the feast. I believe it's rather urgent." She turned her attention to the group. "First years, follow me."

The group was quickly led through the entrance hall, following the clicking of Professor McGonagall's pointed shoes. A doorway to the right tore Harry's attention away from the magic he sensed – the strands that linked the brightly lit torches, the portraits that smiled and waved at him – and he heard a cacophony of voices.

Harry realized the entire school was already there, and that only the first years were being led separately. Perhaps it had something to do with being sorted. Actually, he mused, that was probably the case – they wouldn't be able to join their housemates until they knew what house they were in.

Professor McGonagall showed the group into a small, empty chamber, and Harry was pushed up against Draco and Neville.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," the witch said, and her voice carried clearly in the tiny room. In a business-like manner, she continued, "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats, you'll be sorted into your houses."

As she continued, Harry tuned her out. He'd already read more about the sorting process and the houses of Hogwarts than she was revealing. He used his time to examine his fellow first years. The journey had been too dark to get a good look at anyone besides Draco, Ron, and Neville.

There was a girl in the far corner with bushy brown hair who was listening with rapt attention to the professor. She held herself with a sort of quiet dignity, which was what attracted Harry's attention to begin with, and he made a note to talk with her, no matter what house she was sorted into.

There were also several students who bore a striking resemblance to several of his Shadows – the pretty girl with fair blonde hair who was a dead-ringer for Genevieve Parkinson, and the slender, dark-haired boy whose eyes reminded him of Zabini.

As Professor McGonagall finished her practiced speech, she graced them all with a smile. "I will return shortly. Take a moment to straighten yourselves up."

The instant she left, Harry heard several of the students near the back wall scream. He glanced at them curiously, then felt a smile tug his lips as he caught his first look at the famed ghosts of Hogwarts. Lucius and his Shadows had filled his head with stories about the transparent terror known as Peeves.

Most of the ghosts passed through the room without a care for the first years, chatting amiably among themselves. One ghost, however, paused in front of Harry.

Harry met two gaunt eyes curiously, noting the sunken look to the ghost's face, and the regal robes stained with silver blood. He bowed politely. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Baron."

The Bloody Baron continued to stare at him, almost as though he was searching for something. Both Draco and Neville inched away from him, and the dark-haired boy looked slightly green. The rest of the students were too busy gawking at the other ghosts to notice.

After another moment, the Baron reached out and brought his hand up, the tips of his fingers almost brushing against Harry's forehead. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine, and his scar ached, but he didn't look away.

"One of mine, perhaps?" the ghost said softly. "Only violence calls to me boy, and yet... you call to me."

Harry inclined his head in admission.

"We will speak later, boy. I will... look forward to it." The Baron's mouth twisted into the parody of a smile. His transparent hand dropped away from Harry's forehead, and he turned to follow the other ghosts into the Great Hall.

Draco leaned over and hissed, "What was that about?"

Harry shrugged, his mind playing over the one-sided conversation in his head. He only had a moment before Professor McGonagall entered the tiny room again and called out, "Form a line, and follow me."

The first years shuffled into a line, and as they entered the Great Hall, Harry immediately looked up. Of all the things he'd read about Hogwarts, the enchanted ceiling was what he wanted to see the most. It did not disappoint him.

Vast, black sky stretched out above them all, and tiny pinheads of light peppered the ceiling. For a moment, Harry lost himself; the feeling was the same as riding a broom. The glorious freedom was tangible.

Professor McGonagall placed a stool in front of the line of first years, and gently situated a pointy, tattered hat on its surface. There was a moment of silence, and then the brim of the hat opened widely, took a deep breath of air, and began to sing:

"_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There's nothing in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can't see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be."_

The hat's voice was low, but decidedly pleasant, and Harry found himself smiling a little. As the song gave testament to the strengths of the four houses, he found himself wondering which house would be his home for the next seven years.

As the hat finished its song, the whole hall applauded loudly.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward again, unrolling a long sheet of parchment. "When I call out your names," she said, "you will sit on the stool and put on the hat to be sorted." She paused, glancing at the parchment, and called out, "Abbott, Hannah!"

A tiny girl with pigtails stumbled forward, awkwardly picking up the hat. She pulled it on, and its brim fell over her eyes as she sat down. After a moment, the hat shouted out, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

The students at the table on the far right cheered loudly and clapped. The girl placed the hat back on the stool and joined her table, blushing fiercely.

Professor McGonagall wasted no time. "Bones, Susan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF," the hat cried the moment it touched Susan's head.

And so it went. Professor McGonagall called out name after name, and the students stepped up and tried on the hat. Whatever house they were sorted into cheered loudly.

"Boot, Terry," was sorted into Ravenclaw. "Brown, Lavender," was sent to Gryffindor. "Bulstrode, Millicent," became a Slytherin. "Finnigan, Seamus," was another Gryffindor.

It was fascinating to watch, Harry thought absently. Sometimes the hat would cry out a name only seconds after the student put it on, and sometimes it would pause and sit silently for a minute or two.

"Granger, Hermione!" Professor McGonagall called out. The girl with the bushy hair Harry had been studying earlier stepped up and placed the hat on her head.

"RAVENCLAW!" the hat shouted.

Neville Longbottom was placed into Hufflepuff. He handed the hat to Draco Malfoy, and the minute it touched the blonde boy's head, it screamed, "SLYTHERIN!"

That came as no surprise to Harry. Lucius Malfoy was the epitome of Slytherin, and it was only right his son would have picked up some of those qualities. Oddly enough, both Vincent and Gregory had been sorted into Hufflepuff, so Draco didn't have anyone he knew to sit next to as he took his place at the Slytherin table.

"Parkinson, Pansy!"

Harry's suspicions were confirmed as the girl who resembled his shadow stepped forward. She was sorted into Ravenclaw, and she shyly slipped into the seat next to Hermione.

"Patil," and "Patil," the twins, were alternately placed into Slytherin and Gryffindor, and "Perkins, Sally-Anne," also became a Gryffindor.

Professor McGonagall called out, "Potter, Harry!"

The hall became strangely silent, and Harry heard several students whispering.

"Did she say _Potter_?"

"You don't suppose she means _the_ Harry Potter."

Harry ignored the stir his name caused, picking up the Sorting Hat and slipping it onto his head as he gingerly sat on the stood.

"Well, well," a tiny voice whispered in his ear. "Whatever shall I do with you? Plenty of courage, it seems, and yet it's tempered with ruthless cunning. Not malevolent, mind you, but ruthless nonetheless. Brilliant mind – talent to spare! – and yet, you don't seem to think it matters. A do-what-you-must attitude, is it? Quite interesting."

The voice paused and whispered, "I suppose we have to start at the beginning, then."

It felt as though a feather was flitting through his head, dusting off his memories. When the hat came to Vernon and Dudley, it paused. The voice was almost sad as it said, "Terrible relatives, you've got. But they couldn't break you, could they? And your revenge wasn't really revenge at all, was it? For all that they've done to you, you gave them exactly what they wanted..."

"You'd do well in any house, really. Unerring loyalty for the Hufflepuffs. Bravery and daring beyond fault for the Gryffindors. A mind any witch or wizard would envy for the Ravenclaws. And the cunning and strength of character to hide it all for the Slytherins."

"Wherever you put me will be fine," Harry thought quietly.

The hat laughed softly. "It isn't often I get a wizard who isn't ashamed of Hufflepuff. You will do great things, I think, and now the hall is waiting. You will change this world, Mr. Potter, and I'll be the first to see you on your way."

The hat took a deep breath and shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry's fingers curled around the brim of the hat, but before he could pull it off, it took another breath and cried, "SLYTHERIN!"

Harry paused. Gryffindor _and_ Slytherin? That was quite an unusual combination, and he couldn't ever remember reading about someone who'd been sorted into _two_ houses. He pulled the hat off of his head and met the stunned silence of the Great Hall.

Professor McGonagall was staring at him, narrow eyes scrutinizing his tiny form. Many of the other teachers wore similar expressions, and most of the students' jaws were flapping comically.

An elderly wizard stood at the front of the hall, and Harry immediately recognized him as Albus Dumbledore. His robes were dark blue, and his long, white beard trailed down the front of them. As he raised his hand, the hall fell silent.

"Why," Dumbledore said, twirling the tip of his beard absently around his finger, "there hasn't been a dual sorting since my days at Hogwarts. I suppose we shall handle it as they did then. In light of Mr. Potter's... curious housing, accommodations will be made after the feast."

The old wizard smiled, his eyes twinkling. "Take a seat with one of your houses, Mr. Potter, and let the sorting continue."

Harry blinked, his eyes flickering between the two tables. Both the Gryffindors and Slytherins were silent as they stared at him, daring him to make the choice.

Finally, Draco called out, "You coming, Harry?"

With a relieved nod, Harry slipped into the seat next to Draco. All at once, his fellow Slytherins were clapping, introducing themselves and reaching out of shake his hand. To his left, the Gryffindors were sullenly silent.

"Thomas, Dean!" Professor McGonagall said.

Draco leaned over and whispered softly in Harry's ear, "Father said you'd change the world. I don't believe he knew you'd start so soon."

"Imagine," Harry replied. "Gryffindor and Slytherin."

"Indeed," the blonde boy said. "Well, at least you're half-Slytherin. Something has to balance out being a Gryffindork."

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat shouted.

"Turpin, Lisa," became a Ravenclaw, and "Weasley, Ron," the redhead from the boat, became a Gryffindor. Last, "Zabini, Blaise," was sorted into Slytherin.

Blaise slipped into the seat next to Harry, grinning madly. He stuck his hand out to Harry immediately. "Pleasure to finally meet you."

Harry shook Blaise's hand politely, noting that the only similarity between the energetic young boy and his stoic shadow really were the dark, brown eyes.

Albus Dumbledore got to his feet again, and beamed happily at the students. "Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

He glanced at Harry, the twinkle in his eyes darkening marginally, then he looked back to the rest of the hall as he bowed. "Thank you!"

As Dumbledore sat down, the hall erupted in applause. Harry glanced at the rest of the Slytherins, the only table who wasn't clapping madly, and sighed. From what Lucius had told him about the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the man played the fool marvelously. And yet, the older Malfoy had cautioned him to be wary; Albus Dumbledore was not a man to be taken lightly.

Harry sensed an undercurrent of magic, and the plates in front of him were suddenly overflowing with all sorts of food. He put a little onto his plate, picking at it as he tried to decipher the enchantment on the plates.

"Aren't you going to eat more than that?" Draco asked around a mouthful of chicken.

"I'm not very hungry," Harry replied. It wasn't exactly a lie; Harry knew that if he ate more than the small portion he was accustomed to, his stomach wouldn't be able to handle it. Having lived off what his relatives fed him, and the candy his shadows gave him, his stomach couldn't deal with the rich foods on the table.

Harry felt a chill go down his spine, and he glanced up to see the Bloody Baron staring down at him. He scooted over, putting enough distance between himself and Blaise for the Baron to sit comfortably. His leg brushed up against Draco's, but the blonde didn't pull away to make more room.

The Baron sat swiftly, staring down the first years one-by-one. Even some of the older students dropped their eyes under his stoic gaze.

Harry, for his part, was content to sit beside the ghost and quietly eat his meal.

Most of the Slytherins seemed to want to get a better look at Harry, but with the frightening visage of the Bloody Baron sitting next to him, they hesitated. Only Draco, who sat directly on his left, was able to talk to him without fear.

"You gave me a bit of a start on the train, you know," the blonde boy said, licking some sauce from his fingers. "Me, Greg, and Vince were all wondering if you were really coming to Hogwarts this year."

"Didn't your father tell you?" Harry asked curiously.

Draco grinned. "I thought he was just having me on, you know? I mean, with everything he's told me about you, having you enter Hogwarts the same year as me seemed too good to be true."

Harry used his fork to push the food on his plate around a bit. It would be nice, he mused, to have someone to fill the silence for him. Draco was doing an amiable job of it, skipping from subject to subject as the feast commenced.

"I can't believe that Greg and Vince got sorted into Hufflepuff!" Draco said suddenly. "I suppose it makes sense though. Vince is loyal to a fault, and Greg would follow him to the end of the world. Still, I wonder what their fathers will say..."

Harry glanced towards the Hufflepuff table, and noted that the two boys were sitting close together. They seemed to be in a friendly discussion with Neville, who was blushing furiously.

"I imagine their fathers will be proud," Harry said, so softly that Draco had to lean in closer to hear him.

"Really?" Draco blinked, straining to look at where his two childhood friends were sitting. "Why's that?"

Harry leaned over and murmured softly into Draco's ear, "Because they're two Slytherins in Hufflepuff who will be instrumental in recruiting the rest of the house to our cause."

The blonde boy leaned back, his expression thoughtful, and Harry turned his attention to listening to the rest of Slytherin talk about the professors and their classes. One name in particular caught his attention – Professor Snape.

Casually, Harry glanced at the High Table where all the teachers were chatting amongst themselves. His eyes came to rest on a pale, dark-haired man who was talking to a teacher with a curious turban wrapped around his head, and Harry knew the dark-haired man was undoubtedly Severus Snape.

His first Shadow had told him all about the current potions professor at Hogwarts. Beyond the general information, Lucius and Snape had been lovers when they were in school. They'd joined Voldemort together, and as Lucius grew closer to the Dark Lord, he and Snape had grown further apart. Snape had deserted the Death Eaters and found refuge with Dumbledore, and his desertion had planted the seeds of dissension in many of Voldemort's followers.

It was rather funny, or so Harry thought. Snape was the first Death Eater to desert, and yet, he was the only person who still bore the Dark Mark. Even from across the hall, Harry could sense the blackness that lingered under the sleeve of Snape's robe.

Harry had been expecting this, but what caught his attention was the way the energy from the Dark Mark was acting. He could literally _see_ the dark energy being subtly pulled towards the professor wearing the turban, and the dark energy already around the turbaned man's head was palpable. Pain lanced through the scar on his forehead.

"Draco?" Harry said softly, never taking his eyes off the pair of teachers. "Who's that man Professor Snape is talking to?"

The blonde glanced over to the Head Table curiously. "Him? I'm pretty sure that's the new D.A.D.A teacher, Professor Quirrell. My father mentioned him."

"Curious," Harry replied. As far as he knew, the only person who could affect the Dark Marks energy was Voldemort himself. And it was definitely strange that the darkness only seemed to hover around Quirrell's head, rather than encompassing his entire body.

Suddenly Snape paused in his conversation with Quirrell, his gaze flickering up to meet Harry's eyes directly. The older man frowned, dislike and confusion written plainly across his face.

A tiny smile quirked the corner of Harry's mouth, and he politely acknowledged the potions professor with a nod.

Snape's dark eyes scrutinized him for a moment, and it was the older man who looked away first.

"You okay, Harry?" Draco's voice broke through Harry's reverie.

"I'm fine. Thank you," Harry replied, touching his fingers to his forehead. He wasn't surprised when they came away wet with blood. He quickly wiped his hand on his robes.

Samson stirred around his neck and hissed quietly, _/ Ssskin-brother, you bleed! /_

Harry reached his hand to his shoulder and stroked the snake's head. He couldn't speak, not with so many people around, but his silent reassurance was enough to calm Samson.

_/We will ssspeak later of thisss, /_ Samson said, tightening marginally around Harry's neck.

As the feast drew to an end, the plates in front of the students were empty once again. Dumbledore stood in his place at the High Table, and his voice carried clearly throughout the hall. "I have a few announcements to make," he said with a smile. "All first years should be aware that the Forbidden Forest on the school's grounds is, indeed, forbidden to students. Mr. Filch has asked that I remind you that no magic is allowed between classes in the corridors, and Madam Hooch has scheduled Quidditch tryouts in two weeks' time."

The elderly wizard's voice deepened marginally. "Everyone but the first years should already be aware of all this. However, just starting this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death." Dumbledore brightened, "With that out of the way, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!"

As the students around him launched into the song, Harry noticed Professor McGonagall weaving through the tables. The Sorting Hat rested gingerly on one of her hands.

The older woman halted next to him and said softly, "The Headmaster would like to see you. Please come with me."

Harry nodded, then glanced at Draco. "Later," he said softly.

Draco smiled in response, and Harry followed Professor McGonagall out of the Great Hall.

The older woman was silent as she led him through the winding halls of Hogwarts. They stopped in front of a large, stone gargoyle, and she muttered softly, "Toffee Crunch."

The gargoyle moved aside, revealing a stone staircase, and Harry blinked. The password to what was undoubtedly the Headmaster's office was a Muggle candy? He supposed it made sense. Any student who was attempting to break into the office would never even think of trying Muggle words.

The pair walked up the long, narrow flight of steps, and entered a cozy office, cluttered with all manner of knickknacks, both wizarding and Muggle. Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on one of the shelves, and gestured to a padded chair.

"Have a seat, Mr. Potter," she said primly. "The Headmaster will be up to see you shortly."

Professor McGonagall situated herself in another padded chair, then curiously studied him. After a moment of silence, she said, "I'm Head of Gryffindor House, so you'll be half my responsibility."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry replied quietly.

"Very polite, aren't you? Your Slytherin Head of House is Professor Snape. I suspect Albus will bring him along as well." Professor McGonagall shook her head. "A dual sorting. Well, I suppose I should have expected as much from James Potter's son."

Harry was saved from having to reply as Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape appeared at the top of the stairwell. Dumbledore was smiling, and Snape wore a sour expression.

"Hello, Harry," the elderly wizard said as he made his way to the chair behind the desk. Professor Snape slipped into a chair next to Professor McGonagall.

"Headmaster," Harry replied respectfully.

"My, my," Dumbledore began, his eyes sparkling. "Dual sortings are quite rare, my boy. But occasionally there is a witch or a wizard who exemplifies the traits of two houses in equal proportions – usually Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, or Ravenclaw and Slytherin. There was only ever one other student who was sorted into Gryffindor and Slytherin."

The old man pulled out a sheet of parchment from his robes and handed it to Harry. Harry studied it, surprised to see it was a class schedule. He tucked it into the sleeve of his robe.

"That," Dumbledore said with a wave of his hand, "is your schedule. You've classes with both Gryffindor and Slytherin. Any points given to you or taken from you will affect both your houses, and if you have any problems, you can report to either of your Heads of House." At this he glanced pointedly at the two professors.

"You've already met Professor McGonagall, and this is Professor Snape."

Snape glowered at him, an aristocratic sneer curving his mouth. His voice housed nothing but scorn. "Mr. Potter," he acknowledged.

Harry had dealt with scorn from his relatives his entire life. He'd learned to ignore it, because their scorn couldn't hurt him. They had belts and boiling water for that, after all.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Professor," Harry said softly. A fleeting expression of surprise met his words before Snape's face rescinded to a calculating stare.

"The only order of business left then," Dumbledore said with a smile, "is your room. As you have every right to both the Slytherin and the Gryffindor towers, you will be using a special bedroom." The wizened wizard stood, gesturing for Harry to follow him.

"Albus...?" Professor McGonagall said softly.

Dumbledore smiled. "Ah, yes. Minerva, Severus, I'm sure you both have duties to attend. Please, don't let us keep you."

Harry was impressed. The Headmaster had given a clear dismissal, but its delivery showed nothing but concern that he was wasting the two professors' time. Briefly, Harry wondered if Dumbledore had been a Slytherin.

Both Snape and McGonagall nodded politely to the Headmaster and left.

"Now then," Dumbledore said, guiding Harry through the cluttered shelves to the left. They passed through an entrance that led to a small room. Doors of all shapes and sizes lined every wall, and Harry watched as the Headmaster pulled out a ring of keys. He unlocked an old, wooden door and walked through. Harry followed.

The room it led to was about the size of Dudley's bedroom. The walls were a dark, velvety green, trimmed with silver. The carpet was plush crimson, and the sheets that covered the queen-sized mahogany bed were a similar color. The comforter at the bed's foot, however, was emerald, and the pillows at its head were silver and gold.

There were three doors in the room: the one they'd just come through, and one to either side of it. The door to the left looked to be made of cherry wood, and the one on the right was a darker shade of brown. Besides the bed, which was against the right-side wall, there was a tall mahogany armoire, and a desk. There was also a window, and Harry could see it overlooked the Forbidden Forest.

"This will be your room, Harry," the Headmaster said softly. "The doors alternately lead to the Gryffindor and Slytherin dorms, and they are charmed so that no one but you may use them. In the event that a Slytherin student opens the door that leads to Gryffindor, they will see nothing but a small closet. The same goes for any curious Gryffindors."

"How is that possible, sir?" Harry asked. "The Gryffindor and Slytherin towers are at opposite ends of the school."

Dumbledore waggled a finger at him. "My dear boy, this castle was created with magic. Anything is possible." The elderly wizard grinned, "Though I would recommend that you try not to entertain Gryffindors and Slytherins here at the same time. It would raise far too many questions."

"Yes, sir," Harry responded dutifully. The thought hadn't even occurred to him, to be honest. Having a way into the towers of the two rival houses would be extremely useful, and Lucius had always taught him to keep his advantages secret.

"As I said," the Headmaster continued, "both doors are charmed. Only you can open them, and in the event that you're not in your rooms, no one will be able to gain admittance. The third door will connect you directly to my office. I do ask you not to abuse the privilege, or I'll have to keep it locked, but if you ever need me, you are welcome there."

Harry nodded. The Headmaster had _definitely_ been a Slytherin. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and your unknown wildcards closest of all, he thought to himself.

"I believe that is all," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling merrily. "Good luck with your classes tomorrow, Harry, and goodnight."

"Goodnight, Headmaster," Harry replied.

The older wizard slipped through the middle door and closed it softly behind him.

_/ That man worriesss me, /_ Samson hissed softly.

_/ Why's that? /_

_/ He knowsss, /_ Samson replied cryptically. Harry did not press the issue, and Samson spoke no more.

Harry checked the flow of magic around the room, and discovered that besides the charmed doors, there was also a silencing spell in place. Without a thought, he added a barrier that would shield any magic he used, anchoring it firmly.

He pulled out the tiny trunk from his pocket and enlarged it, then placed it at the foot of his bed. He repeated the process for his two brooms, and concealed both inside of the armoire. His Hogwarts letter had said first years weren't allowed to have their own brooms, but he didn't have any other place to keep them.

He unpacked the rest of his school robes, murmuring a soft spell to remove the wrinkles, and hung them in the armoire. He lined his schoolbooks on the desktop, and placed a few blank scrolls, a thick sheaf of parchment, several quills, and two bottles of plain, black ink into the drawers.

Surveying the room, Harry realized he'd forgotten something. He pulled out a box of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans – after initially developing a fondness for them, he always carried a package of them in his robes – and transfigured what appeared to be a vomit-flavored bean into a perch for Hedwig. He placed the perch next to the window, and gingerly opened it.

The blast of cool air to his face was wonderful, and he realized that beyond having access to both the Slytherin and Gryffindor towers, as well as Dumbledore's office, he also had a clear means of escape, just in case. In the event that he needed a way out, he could either use his broom or become his feathered animagus form and fly to freedom.

Curiously, Harry pulled out his class schedule and studied it, wondering when Dumbledore had had the opportunity to draw it up. Was it possible the Headmaster had known he would be sorted into two houses?

Sighing, he flopped down onto the bed. Samson squeaked in protest, then slithered away from Harry's neck and buried himself in the comforter.

_/ What classsses do you have, ssskin-brother? /_ came the sleepy hiss.

_/ Well, /_ Harry responded, _/ I've got Double Herbology and Transfiguration on Mondays and Fridays: Herbology with Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, and Transfiguration with Gryffindor and Slytherin. Magical Theory with Slytherin on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I've also got Midnight Astronomy on Wednesday with the Gryffindors. /_

_/ Sssounds like a fair balance, /_ Samson said. _/ What elssse? /_

Harry's eyes scrutinized the schedule. _/ Flying lessons and Charms on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Flying with the Gryffindors, and Charms with the Slytherins. And I've got Double Potions on those days too, with Gryffindor _and_ Slytherin. / _

_/ Sssoundsss complicated... /_

_/ Very, /_ Harry replied, nibbling on his lower lip. _/ Other then that, I've got Double Defense against the Dark Arts with Slytherin and Ravenclaw on Wednesdays. /_

_/ Tomorrow isss Monday, yesss? / _Samson said suddenly.

_/ It is. Which means Herbology in the morning, and Magical Theory and Transfiguration in the evening. /_

_/ Which meansss, /_ Samson replied, sounding amused, _/ That you need to sssleep, ssskin-brother. /_

_/ Will you wake me at dawn? /_ Harry requested softly.

_/ Asss you wish. /_

With a hiss of thanks, Harry sent out a tiny thread of power and dimmed the torch in the corner. He pulled his school robe off, and folded it neatly at the foot of his bed. His scars were barely visible in the pale moonlight that filtered through the window, and he stared at his arms for a moment.

The thin criss-cross of white stripes were from when he'd tried to protect his face from his uncle's belt, and there were still ugly black and purple bruises, which overlaid the older brown and yellow ones.

It had been almost a month since he'd been with the Dursleys, but it seemed that the years of abuse weren't going to fade so easily from his flesh. Frowning, he made a note to always be bathed and dressed before either of his houses – he really didn't want anyone to see what a freak he was. Using the communal bathrooms would be a pain, but he had little choice.

With a soft sigh, he slipped beneath his covers. Tomorrow would be his first day of classes, and yet the thought didn't excite him in the least. He did have half an hour between Herbology and lunch, though. As he drifted off into a fitful slumber full of nightmares – memories – he decided to use the time to acquaint himself with his only reason for being at Hogwarts – the Library.

o


	4. Book 1, Chapter 04: First Classes

Title: In Memory I

Author: Becka

Chapter 4: First Classes

o

The next morning, Harry awoke as the first light of dawn was just beginning to creep out over the horizon. His relatives had drilled punctuality into him, and as a result, he was a very early riser. Still, in the unlikely event that he didn't wake up on time, it was nice to know that Samson was willing to play alarm clock for him.

Harry slipped out of the bed, tossed on a clean set of school robes, and peeked out of the door that connected him to the Slytherin dorms. Finding the hallway empty, he sent out a tiny locator spell to find the common bathrooms.

Once there, it only took him a few moments to efficiently bathe himself, to slip into his school robes, and to run his fingers through his unruly hair. Every day was a battle to try and flatten his bangs down enough to cover his scar.

As he worked, the mirror's surface shimmered a bit. A sleepy voice said, "Quite the early riser, aren't you?" Suddenly, the mirror whistled at him, sounding completely awake, "My, my, my! Are all the first years as cute as you, hun?"

Harry blinked. "What do you mean?"

The mirror tut-tutted. "Deary, you've got to be the sweetest little thing I've seen in _years_."

An uncertain blush stained Harry's cheeks. "Thank you," he said softly, not knowing how to respond.

"You're quite welcome, sweetcheeks," the mirror purred. Swallowing, Harry stuttered another thank you and made a hasty exit.

Once Harry was safely back in his dorm room, he let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps he'd use the Gryffindor bathroom tomorrow.

**{Are you all right, my fledge?}**

Harry glanced up at the concerned hoots and saw Hedwig comfortably situated on her perch. **{It's nothing, beauty. I just...}** his reply trailed off as he paused uncertainly.

_/Ssskin-brother,/_ Samson hissed from the bed, _/What'sss wrong?/_

Harry couldn't seem to find the right words as he stared at his two familiars. The mirror had made him uncomfortable. How could it call him "cute?" He was a freak.

Then again, the mirror hadn't seen his scars.

Knowing that he couldn't directly lie to Samson or Hedwig, Harry simply shook his head and repeated softly, "It's nothing."

Before they could pry, he opened the sixth lock on his trunk and made his way down to his study. He had an hour to kill before breakfast, and he used the time to begin sorting through his many books. One of the desk drawers contained a metal box with index cards, and as he shelved the books, he carefully penned each title and author onto a card.

He managed to get through fifty of them before Hedwig called down to him, **{Breakfast is in ten minutes, fledge!}**

Grateful for the reminder, he ascended the staircase, locked his trunk, and hooted a soft thanks to her. As he slipped through the door into the Slytherin dorms, he bumped directly into Draco.

The blonde smiled at him. "Harry! I was worried about you last night. I thought they'd set you up in the Gryffindork dorms." He gestured to the door that Harry had just shut. "That your room, then?"

"It is," Harry replied softly. The pair made their way out of the Slytherin tower, and began their trek through the castle to the Great Hall.

The whispers started up instantaneously.

"There, look."

"Where?"

"Next to the blonde kid, the Slytherin."

"Wearing the glasses?"

"Can you believe?"

"I know! Slytherin and Gryffindor."

"Did you see his scar?"

"So," Draco began, glaring at every student who was staring at Harry, "What did the Headmaster want to talk to you about?"

"He gave me my schedule and laid a few ground rules for dual sortings."

"Oh?" Draco's shoes made soft click-clicks on the stone corridor. In contrast, Harry's footsteps were silent.

Sensing that the blonde wouldn't be satisfied until he was given more information, Harry revealed, "For example, if I lose house points, I lose them for both Gryffindor and Slytherin. And if I have any problems, I can go to either Head of House."

"Ah." Draco nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense, I guess. It's good that you don't have to worry about Quidditch until next year. Imagine what would happen if both house teams wanted you to play!"

They reached the Great Hall and took their seats at the Slytherin table for breakfast. The Bloody Baron silently took the seat to Harry's left. Overall, breakfast was a quiet affair, and almost all of the students were still sleepy-eyed.

Meals were another question on Harry's mind. Dumbledore hadn't specifically mentioned it, but Harry supposed he was allowed to sit at either of his house tables. Covertly, he glanced at the Gryffindors and caught a few of them staring at him with open hostility. Perhaps they were still bitter that he'd chosen to sit with the Slytherin last night?

Harry spooned a small portion of eggs onto his plate, nibbling them thoughtfully. He really did need to try to participate in both houses – alternately sharing meals with the Gryffindors and Slytherins, for starters – and yet, he found himself torn.

The soft murmurs of the Slytherins around him were... familiar. Comfortable, even. It was probably because many of them were the children of his shadows. But most of all, the Gryffindors did not have Draco.

With the blonde boy at his side, Harry felt safe. Draco was Lucius' son, and Harry trusted Lucius implicitly. The other boy's very presence was soothing, as if the bond Harry shared with his first Shadow connected him to Draco as well.

Breakfast ended, and Harry and Draco parted ways as they each headed to their first class at Hogwarts.

The whispers followed Harry.

"Defeated You-Know-Who!"

"But he's such a scrawny kid."

"He's got the scar, though."

"Have you seen it?"

It was especially embarrassing when a student would double-back through one of the halls just to get a second look at him. He hoped the novelty of being Harry Potter would wear off soon.

Harry's first class was Double Herbology, with Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Thankfully, he'd had the presence of mind to bring his book bag to breakfast. As he made his way to the classroom, he saw Gregory Goyle, Vincent Crabbe, and Neville Longbottom ahead of him.

Neville spotted him first, and a wide grin broke out across the plump boy's friendly face. "Harry!" he called out.

"Hello, Neville," Harry replied, and he fell into step beside the three boys. "Gregory. Vincent." He nodded a greeting to each of them.

"Call me Vince," Vincent said. "My full name is too formal, you know?"

"Greg," Gregory seconded. "Same here."

"I couldn't believe you were Harry Potter," Neville piped up, still smiling. "Then again, I guess no one else could, either. Do you get that sort of reaction a lot?"

"No, I don't," Harry responded. "I've lived with Muggles my whole life. They don't know I'm famous."

Gregory blinked, surprised. "So that's why you were so adamant about Muggle-borns on the train."

"Partly," Harry replied softly.

They arrived a moment later, and Harry paused in the doorway, studying the spacious classroom. The windows were open, and at least ten small, round tables were neatly arranged so that no matter where anyone sat, they'd have a clear view of the teacher's desk. Each table had a black container, about the size of a shoebox, at its center.

An older woman, who Harry took to be Professor Sprout, stood by the teacher's desk and waved them in. "Come on, come on. Take a seat, gentlemen."

They did so, and the rest of the students filed in dutifully. The last boy to enter was Ronald Weasley, the redhead Harry had met on the boat. There weren't any free chairs besides the one at the table where Harry, Neville, Vincent, and Gregory sat.

Ron slipped into the seat silently, frowning openly in Harry's direction.

After a short roll call, Professor Sprout cleared her throat and began to speak in a mellifluous voice that carried clearly in the large room. "Welcome to Double Herbology. In this class, you'll be learning about the many varieties of magical herbs and fungi – where they are found, the proper way to handle them, and their uses in the everyday world."

"Today, you are going to begin a two-week assignment to familiarize yourself with the one-hundred most common, and most useful, of these herbs. You will be broken into groups of five and given a box containing packets of unidentified herbs and fungi. Your assignment is to prepare a report listing their names, properties, identifiable features, where they can be found, most common uses, and one uncommon use for each. Though you will work together to identify these herbs, every student is expected to write a separate report. Lastly, you will have this class period to work, but the rest of your assignment completed on your own time. Are there any questions?"

One Hufflepuff raised her hand timidly.

"Yes, Ms. Bones?"

"Will we be allowed to choose our own groups, or are they to be assigned, Professor?"

Professor Sprout smiled. "As you may have noticed, each of the tables you are sitting at has five seats. The students sitting with you will be your partners."

Harry glanced around his table. It would be a pleasure working with the three Hufflepuffs, but Ron was still glaring at him with unconcealed hostility.

"The box on your table contains the herbs you will be working with, and I will be around shortly to help you if you have any questions." Professor Sprout smiled again. "You may begin."

Neville reached forward and pulled the lid off the box, then carefully spread the tiny packets of herbs on the table. A few of them contained the full leaves and berries, and some were small specimens of fungi, but most had been ground to powder and were barely distinguishable.

Vincent frowned. "How are we supposed to tell the difference?" he asked, holding up two packets of fine, red powder that were identical.

Harry extended his hand, and Vincent relinquished the packets. He opened one of them and sniffed the contents. "Raktachandan," he said quietly. He repeated the process with the other packet and continued, "Madder Root."

The other boys stared at him. "How do you know that?" Gregory finally asked.

Harry shrugged, uncomfortable at the attention, and took a moment to reseal the packages.

Suddenly Ron sneered, "Too good to share with the rest of us, are you?"

Gregory and Neville blinked at the angry redhead, and Vince opened his mouth to say something, but Harry softly cut in, "No. Raktachandan has a very faint, very acrid smell, and if you look at the powder closely, you can see darker red specks mixed in there as well. Madder Root powder is much finer, and smells like mint and oranges. I know because I've studied."

Ron's sneer faltered a little before he growled, "Probably got all sorts of books on it, don't you? Raised in the lap of luxury 'cause you're a bloody hero."

Harry didn't bother to respond as he pulled out his tattered copy of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_, a blank sheet of parchment, and a quill and ink. He deftly sketched small diagrams of the two herbs.

The three Hufflepuffs were shooting Ron angry looks, but the redhead continued heatedly, "Bet you've had people tellin' you how wonderful you were your whole life. Bet you live off that sort of attention." He seemed incensed that Harry was ignoring him.

"Why do you hate me so much?" Harry finally said softly.

"You're a bloody _Slytherin_," Ron shot back.

"I'm part Gryffindor," Harry pointed out logically.

"Just 'cause you could fool the Sorting Hat into thinking that you're a Gryffindor doesn't mean I have to accept you, git."

"No," Harry mused softly before turning back to his work, "I don't suppose you do."

"Do you boys need any help?" Professor Sprout asked as she walked over to their table.

"No," Vincent said, staring back and forth between Ron and Harry. "I think everything's pretty much clear."

The rest of the class went pretty much the same. Vincent, Greg, and Neville discussed what various herbs might be, Harry offered suggestions that were usually correct – though he did intentionally screw up a few times – and Ron sneered no matter what was said, alternately commenting on Harry's so-called privileged life or insulting him because he "obviously wasn't as perfect as everyone thought he was."

At the end of the class period, Harry quietly packed up his things. Greg and Vince nominated Neville to carry the box with all the packets, and Ron was shoving his things into his backpack haphazardly.

Ignoring Ron hadn't been difficult – his relatives had said much worse to him – but it left him feeling empty. He wondered if all the dually sorted students had to overcome such biased hostility. Finally he decided it was probably only the case for someone who was unfortunate enough to get sorted into both Gryffindor and Slytherin.

"Hey, Harry," Gregory said hesitantly.

Harry glanced up from his book bag, surprised; usually Vincent was the more vocal of the two boys. Finally he answered, "Yes?"

"Would you, ah, tell Dray hello from me and Vince? Maybe get his free-periods for us, too, 'cause we'd really like to hang out with him sometimes, and not just during the weekends, y'know?" Greg was staring at his feet, and Harry wondered why the question seemed to embarrass the other boy so much.

Perhaps it was the school prejudice – associating with Slytherins and all that. Maybe Gregory felt they couldn't approach Draco directly because he was Slytherin. Harry, on the other hand, was half Gryffindor and acceptably safe. And yet, to have to go through someone else just to get in touch with a friend must be embarrassing.

"Sure," Harry replied, watching the relief play out across the other boy's face. "Are you free on Wednesday at 3:30?" At Greg's eager nod, he continued, "Why don't we get together to work on the Herbology project then, and I can tell you."

"Thanks, Harry."

As all of the students left the room, Neville reached out a hand and pulled Harry aside. He whispered, "I'm really sorry about all that."

Harry blinked. "About all what?"

The boy blushed furiously. "I'm sorry that I didn't stick up for you when Ron was being such a prat."

"Don't worry about it, Neville," Harry responded gently, while in his mind he wondered why _anyone_ would feel bad about not sticking up for him. "It doesn't bother me. Will you be joining me and Greg on Wednesday?"

"Sure!" Neville replied, obviously relieved that Harry didn't blame him.

As it turned out, Harry's conversations with Gregory and Neville delayed his visit to the library. He barely had enough time to make it to the Great Hall for lunch. The whispers were with him every step.

He slipped into his usual spot next to Draco. Blaise slid into the seat next to him, and Harry said quietly, "You might want to move."

Blaise blinked. "'Scuse me?"

"I said, 'you might want to move.'" Harry reached out and took a slice of warm bread from one of the baskets on the table.

"Why's that?" Blaise's tone touched on defensive.

"Because you're sitting in his seat." Harry glanced up at the ghost who was standing behind the young Slytherin. The Bloody Baron glowered darkly.

"Eh." Blaise quickly scooted away from Harry. As the ghost took his seat, Blaise stuttered, "T-terribly sorry, your, ah, Bloodiness."

To his right, Draco snickered softly.

"So," Draco began, heaping roast beef and mashed tubers onto his plate, "How'd your first class go?"

"Fine, thank you." Harry quietly related his assignment, being paired with the three Hufflepuffs and Ron, and how Greg had asked Harry to get Draco's free periods.

"Yeah?" Draco smiled. "I've got a free period on Tuesday and Thursday after breakfast. But everybody's free after dinner unless they've got detention. Tell him to meet me in the Library after dinner on Wednesday."

Harry nodded. Around them, the other first years were talking about their next class, Magical Theory. Apparently, Professor Binns had been a teacher at Hogwarts more than one hundred years ago. When he'd died, his ghost had begged to be kept on.

After lunch ended, Harry and Draco made their way to the tiny classroom that was used by Professor Binns. Wordlessly, they sat at one of the joint desks.

Professor Binns wasted no time. After the rest of the Slytherin first years entered, he drew himself up. "Welcome to Magical Theory. Don't let the name misguide you – this class is a combination of both Theory and History. Until a few years ago, History of Magic was a separate class, but as the two are so related, it was decided to combine them."

"Now," he said, a smile crossing his slightly transparent face, "most of you will want to jump right into the actual practice of spells, but first, you must learn to understand them. This is where the history bit comes in. I will give you a key piece of advice, though. Pronunciation is _everything_. Many of you won't fully understand, and so, a demonstration!"

"May I have two volunteers?"

No one raised their hand. Harry hadn't expected anyone to. Being Slytherin meant that it was both foolish and dangerous to volunteer for something blindly.

Apparently Professor Binns had been expecting that, because he didn't comment on it. Instead he glanced at a list on his desk and called out, "Mr. Zabini and Ms. Bulstrode, come to the front of the classroom, please."

The two students grudgingly stood and shuffled to the front of the room.

Professor Binns pointed his ghostly wand at Blaise and murmured, "_Ep_o_tus_."

Harry blinked. He didn't think that ghosts could do magic. He filed the thought away for later reference as the professor said, "Now, Mr. Zabini, if you could tell the class what happened."

Blaise shrugged. "I.. um... swallowed?"

"Quite right." Professor Binns smiled again. "The Epotus spell was designed by a mediwitch who needed something to aid her in getting unconscious patients to swallow medicine. Now, Ms. Bulstrode."

The ghost pointed his wand at her and said, "_Epot_u_s_."

Millicent seemed dazed, and a goofy grin flitted across her face.

After a moment, Professor Binns said, "_Finite Incantatum_. Ms. Bulstrode, how did you feel?"

"Er." The young Slytherin fidgeted. "I felt really lightheaded, and um..."

The professor laughed. "Please, don't be shy. I believe what Ms. Bulstrode is trying to tell the class is that she felt drunk. That particular spell was designed by a wizard who adored being tipsy, but detested the taste of alcohol. As you can see, the spells are virtually identical. The key difference is in which vowel is emphasized, if any are emphasized at all."

Harry analyzed the two spells in his head. It made sense, he supposed. Thanks to his Latin lessons with Lucius, he remembered that "epotus" could mean "drink" or "swallow." And Harry had noticed that during the first incantation, the professor had emphasized the "o," while in the second, he'd stressed the "u."

"You may take your seat," the ghost told Millicent. "Mr. Zabini, there is a pile of handouts on my desk. If you would distribute them among your classmates, please?"

Blaise nodded and handed out the parchments.

Curiously, Harry glanced at the handout. It was a list of simple spells, all of which he recognized. Lumos, Nox, Wingardium Leviosa, and Finite Incantatum, to name a few.

Professor Binns asked, "Just by looking at these incantations, can anyone tell me how they're supposed to be pronounced?"

Harry could have, but as he glanced around, he saw that his fellow Slytherins were frowning at the parchments as if trying to decipher the spells. He remained silent.

"As you can see," the ghost continued, "the words themselves tell you nothing. Which is why you _must_ memorize the nuances of each spell to cast them properly."

The rest of the class period was spent familiarizing themselves with the proper pronunciation of the list of spells. Professor Binns gave them their assignment as they headed out the door – to research the first ten spells on the list and give the history of why they were created, and by whom.

"Well," Draco drawled, "I suppose that could have been worse. I'd heard that Binns was a bit of a bore, but he doesn't seem so bad."

"Hm," Harry replied noncommittally.

The blonde pulled out his schedule and frowned. "Bleh. Double Transfigurations with the Gryffindorks next. No offense, Harry."

"None taken."

As they made their ways through the halls, Draco said abruptly, "I still can't believe you're part Gryffindor, you know. I mean, they're a bunch of rash, close-minded prats. From what you told me about the Weasel, they won't even accept you, and you're one of them!"

Harry had to agree with that. Even though Ron had been the only one to vocalize his dislike, he'd caught other Gryffindors glowering at him in the halls. It was funny to think that Gryffindors were supposed to be loyal to one another, and Slytherins were supposed to be back-stabbing snakes. Slytherin was the house that had welcomed him with open arms, and Gryffindor was the house that wanted nothing to do with him.

A bit of a problem, Harry mused. He had to gain support from all of the Houses.

As the pair entered the Transfiguration classroom, Harry noticed a lovely tabby sitting primly on the desk. The flow of magic ingrained in the cat was the same as Peter had when he was in his animagus form. It seemed that Professor McGonagall was an animagus as well, but none of the students seemed to realize this as they took their seats and continued chatting.

Gryffindors sat in the desks to the left, and Slytherins took the ones to the right.

A few minutes into class, one of the Gryffindors, a dark-skinned boy – Harry thought his name was Dean – said loudly, "Is class canceled or something? Where's the professor?"

The cat leapt off the desk, transforming midair, and Professor McGonagall's shoes clicked on the floor as she gracefully landed.

Dean's face was pale, but a deep red blush slowly infused his cheeks.

With a disapproving glance at the poor Gryffindor, Professor McGonagall began, "Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

She paused, fixing each of them with her piercing gaze, and continued, "I'm Professor McGonagall, as most of you already know, and I will be teaching you the fine art of Transfiguration. Transfiguration isn't a spell. Spells can be cast by anyone who has the capacity to memorize them; Transfiguration, however, entails the ability to focus your mind and draw upon your inner magic. Think of it as shaping."

Everyone around him had pulled out a sheet of parchment and was furiously scribbling her words.

"One must create the image of what you want in your mind, and shape that image through your focus. The greater the change to what you are shaping, the more difficult it is. For example, today you will attempt to transfigure a match into a needle. The size and shape are similar, but you must focus on the coloring. To transfigure, say, a quill into a scroll is more difficult and requires more energy because of the magnitude of the change."

With a wave of her hand, she changed her desk into a small, pink pig. The rest of the class boggled, but Harry wasn't too impressed. He'd had plenty of practice at changing inanimate objects into creatures.

"As you may have already learned, 'Finite Incantatum' will end most spells. Not so with transfiguration. To return an object to its original form, you must release the magical ties that bind it. It's a bit tricky, especially if you don't know what the transfigured object was originally, but what you must remember is that transfigured objects _want_ to return to their original states. Any questions?"

Absently, she waved her hand again, and the pig became her desk once more.

Harry hesitantly raised his hand. When she called on him, he asked, "Professor, is there any way to anchor the transfiguration so that it can't be removed?"

"Excellent question. To answer, presently there is not. Transfiguration Masters throughout the ages have been working on theories, but none have succeeded."

Harry wondered why anchoring spells was so easy for him if it was allegedly impossible. He supposed it tied into his ability to perform wandless magic.

After half an hour of jotting horribly complicated notes, everyone was given a match. As the students around him struggled, Harry held up his hand and imagined the tip of the match with a hole through it. The other end became pointed, and the wood and sulphur became solid silver. For some reason, he found that it was easiest for him to transfigure things into silver.

Belatedly, he remembered not to anchor the spell. It was a bit difficult, because he'd become to accustomed to doing so.

Draco, who'd been watching him, breathed, "Merlin!"

The whole process had taken Harry a few seconds to complete.

Wide, silver blue eyes met his own, and Harry shrugged self-consciously. His shadows had often praised his abilities as a child, but they'd never made a huge deal out of them.

Professor McGonagall made her way over to where Draco and Harry sat. Staring at the needle, she graced Harry with a small, pleased smile. "Well, Mr. Potter, I do believe you are a natural. Five points to, er," she paused, "Gryffindor and Slytherin."

Both houses seemed pleased that he'd earned them points, but glared at each other when they realized that neither House had been placed ahead. The Gryffindors then turned their gazes on Harry, glowering as if he was the one at fault.

Extremely uncomfortable at the attention, Harry was horrified to feel his face turning red. "Thank you, Professor," he muttered, and slunk down his seat.

When the class ended, Harry was the only one who'd managed to complete the task. Professor McGonagall said primly, "Your assignment is to continue practicing transfiguring the match into a needle. Mr. Potter, as you've already succeeded, you will attempt to transfigure the needle back into a match."

As Draco and Harry made their way to the Great Hall for dinner, several Slytherins approached them and asked Harry to help them out with the assignment. Harry immediately agreed, more than happy to assist one of his houses.

Several of the Gryffindors looked as though they wanted to ask for Harry's help, but the sneer fixed on Ron's face was enough to keep them at bay.

"We don't need that bloody Slytherin's help," Harry overhead Ron mutter to Dean.

"Isn't he a Gryffindor, too, though?" one of the other students asked timidly.

Harry didn't hear Ron's response because Draco grabbed his hand and dragged him away. The other boy's touch was a bit of a shock to his system, and he resisted the urge to shy away from the contact. Draco was Lucius' son, he repeated to himself. Draco could be trusted.

As they walked to the Great Hall, the whispers started again.

"Did you hear?"

"Yeah! Transfigured a match into a needle like it was nothing."

"Took me a week to do that."

"Yeah, me too. But c'mon-"

"Yeah, he's Harry Potter."

Dinner was a blur, and Harry was completely aware of the stares of the students from the other tables. He'd decided to sit with the Slytherins again, simply because out of his two houses, they were the only ones who didn't treat him like he was an exhibit.

"Harry!" Draco said about halfway through dinner, "Is that _all_ you're going to eat?"

Harry glanced down at his plate where he'd absently been pushing a bit of chicken around. Truthfully, he hadn't taken even taken a bite, but he wasn't very hungry. Breakfast and lunch had been more than he'd ever eaten in a day, and even though it had been several hours, he still felt bloated.

Glancing into Draco's silver-blue eyes, he tried to smile a little. "All the attention's ruined my appetite, I think."

Draco nodded. "I know what you mean. Whenever father has a family reunion at the Manor, I can't eat anything either. It feels like the whole family's watching me." The blonde glanced around, glowering silently at some of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs who were staring at Harry. "But then, everyone _is_ watching you."

As the meal ended, Draco grabbed his hand roughly – Harry suppressed a flinch – and dragged him out of the Great Hall. They made it back to the Slytherin dorms in record time, and Draco addressed the regal-looking portrait of a wizard who bore a striking resemblance to Professor Snape. "Pure-bloods," he said softly.

When they were safely inside the Slytherin common room, Draco turned a stunning smile at Harry. "Ha!" he said, looking pleased with himself. "We made it back without one bloody whisper!"

Harry felt a natural smile curve his lips. Draco was Lucius' son, all right. And he protected Harry, just as Harry's first Shadow always had. "Thank you," he said softly.

"Don't mention it," the blonde replied easily. "I mean, we haven't even been here a _day_ and the other students have already pissed me off with all the whispers and the staring. I can't even imagine how you must feel."

"Say," Draco continued, fixing Harry with a piercing look, "D'you think I could, um, see your owl again? She was really beautiful."

Still smiling, Harry nodded.

They made their way to Harry's room, and Draco let out a low whistle. "Geez. Think Dumbledore overdid it with the dual-sorting house pride?" He stared openly at the odd mix of red, green, silver, and gold.

"A little," Harry admitted softly.

**{You look tired, my fledge,}** Hedwig hooted softly from her perch near the window. **{You've brought the sun-kissed child with you, then?}**

Draco turned his eyes to the ebony owl. His gaze was transfixed. "Do you think she'd let me pet her?"

**{You may tell the boy that I'd like the top of my head stroked,}** Hedwig deemed Draco worthy with a hint of the superiority Harry had seen at the Owlery.

"I think she'd let you stroke her head," Harry told Draco lightly.

Draco did so, gently running the tips of his fingers along her soft feathers. From the bed, Samson hissed sleepily, _/ Bloody pompous owl. /_

**{Lazy serpent,}** Hedwig hooted as she leaned into Draco's touch.

"What was that?" Draco asked, looking around the room.

"My snake, Samson," Harry said, wondering how much to reveal to the other Slytherin.

"Where is he? What is he? A python? A cobra?" There was barely concealed excitement in the other boy's voice.

"A garden snake," Harry responded as he laid his arm on the bed. Samson immediately coiled around Harry's wrist.

"He's..." Draco blinked, eyeing the small serpent. "He's sort of cute, actually."

Samson hissed indignantly, _/ I am not cute, wretch. I am noble, a fine ssspecimen of ssserpentsss everywhere. /_

After a moment of consideration, Harry decided to extend a little trust to Draco. He murmured softly to Samson, _/ Be nice. I'm sure he didn't mean to offend you. /_

_/ Jussst tell him not to call me cute, /_ Samson huffed. In that moment, Harry thought Samson went beyond cute and breached adorable. He'd never seen the little snake so out of sorts.

Draco gaped at him, "You're a _Parselmouth_?"

Harry nodded.

"But... but..." Draco stuttered, "There hasn't been a Parselmouth since you defeated You-Know-Who!" Suddenly, the blonde grinned, "That's bloody brilliant! What did he say?"

"He asked you not to call him cute," Harry replied, relieved that Draco accepted his ability in stride. The two boys spent the rest of the night talking with Samson, and Harry graciously acted as a translator between the snake and Draco. Neither of them noticed the sun sink into the horizon.

They fell asleep together, laid out across Harry's bed, and nothing could have felt more natural.

o

Harry awoke to the strange sensation of being snuggled against another body. An image of Dudley pressed up against him flashed through his mind and he froze. He remembered that he was at Hogwarts, and he glanced at his companion's fair hair, willing himself to relax.

Carefully, so as not to disturb Draco, he slipped from the bed, grabbing a clean set of robes from his armoire, and made his way to the Slytherin bathrooms. After all, he mused to himself, it would be rather strange if Draco saw him walk out of what would appear to be a closet.

He bathed swiftly, and as he stepped out of the shower, the mirror exclaimed, "Sweetcheeks!"

Harry froze. Rotely, he pulled his robe over his head, his gaze fixed on the floor. The mirror's voice whispered, "Sweet Merlin, hun, did you get the model of the broom that ran you over?"

"Please," Harry requested softly, "Would you... not tell anyone?" He didn't think the mirror was in the habit of sharing conversations, but it was better to be safe.

"Sure, hun. You have my word." The mirror's voice was soft. "Hey, I still think you're the loveliest boy in the whole dorm, you know. Mind you, there's a blonde who's quite the looker, but you're gorgeous."

Harry bit his lip as he ran his hands through his hair, flattening his bangs over his scar. "How can you say that?"

"I'm not just talking about your body, deary. I'm talking about the whole package."

There was something in the mirror's voice that disturbed him. Something about the knowing softness of the tone, and he quickly fled the room. Behind him, the mirror called out, "See you tomorrow, sweetcheeks!"

Harry left the dorms and made his way out to the field where his flying lessons would take place. He grabbed one of the school brooms, only knowing that he needed to do something, anything, to get rid of the horrid feeling in his stomach.

Flying always helps, he repeated in his head. Flying makes everything else go away.

So he mounted the rickety broom, and he soared.

In those moments, it didn't occur to him that Draco would wake up alone in bed and wonder where Harry was. He didn't know that the blonde would stumble over to Hedwig, stroking her soft feathers, and whisper to himself, "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

It didn't matter that he would miss breakfast. He didn't know that the entire hall would stare at his empty seat, or that the Bloody Baron would demand to know where his dark prodigy was. He wouldn't see Draco angrily shoving a bit of porridge around on his plate, snapping at anyone who dared to voice the question on everyone's mind. He wouldn't be witness to the concern on Albus Dumbledore's face, or the sneer of Severus Snape's lips.

Nothing mattered at all when the wind whispered in his ears as he soared seventy feet above the school. The sun shining on his face blinded him, but he didn't need to see. It was enough that he could feel.

Some time later, Harry descended, locking the school broom back into its cabinet. He felt much better, and he even managed a smile as the Gryffindors shuffled out onto the grounds for their first flying lessons.

A moment later, Madam Hooch joined them, distributing a wobbly broom to each student. Of all the Hogwarts teachers he'd see so far, Madam Hooch was the most striking, with her short, silver hair and her sharp, yellow eyes.

"Well," she said in a voice that was like steel, "Mount up!"

Most of the students were hesitant, and Harry wondered why.

"Hands over your brooms," Madam Hooch barked. "And say, 'up!'"

There was an instant chorus of voices as every Gryffindor quickly repeated, "Up!"

Harry's broom smacked into his hand, as did Ron's. After a few more tries, all of the students' brooms were hovering a few feet off the ground. They mounted, and Madam Hooch said, "All right, then. On the count of three, everyone kick off. One. Two."

A round-faced pigtailed girl Harry remembered from the Sorting Feast – Sally-Ann Perkins – let out an undignified squeal, and her broom rose sharply in the air. Madam Hooch vainly tried to coach her down, but when the girl reached fifty feet, she tottered to the side and fell.

There was a sickening crunch as she hit the ground, one that Harry had heard several times before. His time at the hands of Vernon Dursley had given him one thing – Harry could tell what was broken just by the unique crack each bone made.

"Broken wrist," Harry muttered softly.

To his left, Dean Thomas gave him an odd look.

A moment later, Madam Hooch stood from Sally-Anne's side and announced, "Broken wrist. I've got to take her to the infirmary. If anyone messes about while I'm gone, there'll be hell to pay."

Madam Hooch levitated the crying girl off the ground, and the two of them disappeared through one of the entrances.

"How'd you know that?" Dean asked suspiciously, eyeing Harry.

"I, ah," Harry swallowed, "I've had my wrist broken before."

"Oh," came the reply. Suddenly, Dean said, "That's a pretty cool ring."

Harry glanced at the small silver serpent that adorned his finger, his first gift. Lucius had cast a spell on it so that it adjusted to fit his finger as he grew.

"Thank you," Harry replied.

"Can I see it?" Dean asked.

Wordlessly, Harry removed the ring from his finger. Dean examined it a moment, impressed. "That's real silver, isn't it?" The dark-skinned boy moved to return the ring when another hand swiftly intercepted it.

"A serpent, huh?" Ron asked, casually tossing the ring up and down in his hand. "So, what, that's your true colors then?"

"Give it back," Harry said softly.

"Nah," Ron replied, "I don't think so. I thought I told you yesterday that it doesn't matter how much you pretend. You're not a Gryffindor and you'll never be one, so why don't you just stay with the Slytherins where you belong!"

"Give it back," Harry repeated.

Ron hopped up onto his broom and kicked off. Harry followed him, and it didn't even take him a moment to catch up to the redhead.

The other students were tiny dots below them as Harry pulled his broom alongside Ron's. Harry tried again, "Give me my ring back."

Apparently surprised that Harry could keep up with him so effortlessly, Ron faltered. His face hardened and he snarled, "Go get it yourself!" He threw the small, silver ring with all of his strength.

Harry whipped around, narrowed eyes barely able to distinguish the ring as it fell. He leaned into a dive, never letting his sight waver. He ignored the cries of the students, ignored the older teacher who was making her way out onto the pitch. Completely focused, he reached out his hand, snatching the ring from the air, and pulled up inches away from the ground.

His relief as he slipped the ring back onto his finger was interrupted as a voice roared, "HARRY POTTER!"

Harry looked up to see Professor McGonagall advancing on him. Her glasses flashed dangerously as she huffed, "Never – in all my time at Hogwarts –" She stopped in front of him. "How _dare_ you – you might have broken your neck!"

"I'm sorry, Professor," Harry said softly. "But I wanted my ring back."

"Your _ring_!"

Wordlessly, Harry held up his hand, allowing the enraged professor to see the silver serpent on his finger. The older woman was tightlipped as she said, "Come with me, Mr. Potter."

Harry heard a few of the Gryffindors sniggering behind him. He ignored them as he followed Professor McGonagall through the corridors. It only took them a few minutes to reach the dungeons, and Harry idly wondered if she was going to beat him.

She knocked once, sharply, on an imposing door.

Professor Snape pulled the door open with a sneer. Seeing McGonagall and Harry, he growled, "What?"

Professor McGonagall raised her brow. She seemed to have calmed down between their march from the pitch to the dungeons. "As you are Harry's other Head of House, it's my duty to inform you that I've made him the Gryffindor Seeker."

Harry stared at the older woman. Wasn't he supposed to be in trouble?

Glancing at Snape, Harry could almost see the wheels in the man's head begin to turn. Thoughts like if McGonagall had decided to make Harry a Seeker, despite his age, then Harry's ability on a broom was definitely better than average. And thoughts that if, in fact, Harry was a decent Seeker and Snape simply disregarded McGonagall's statement, Slytherin would suffer for it.

Finally, the man replied, "I have no objection to this." Before Professor McGonagall could let out a relieved breath, Snape continued, "So long as you do not object to Mr. Potter being the Seeker for Slytherin as well."

Professor McGonagall was tightlipped as she replied, "Very well. I suppose we shall have to see the Headmaster about this, won't we?"

Together, they marched out of the dungeons and towards Dumbledore's office, Harry trailing uneasily behind them. The vantage point gave him a clear view of their stiff backs, and he wondered if all professors had the ability to make their robes billow impressively behind them.

"Toffee Crunch," Professor McGonagall barked, and the stone gargoyle that protected the Headmaster's office moved aside.

Each footfall on the stairs was heavy. When they finally made it to the top of the room, Harry could barely make out Dumbledore sitting at his desk.

"May I help you?" the elderly wizard asked curiously, eyeing the two professors.

Snape and McGonagall immediately spoke up, their words overlapping one another.

"Headmaster, I'd like to make Harry Seeker for Gryffindor."

"Headmaster, I'd like to make Mr. Potter Seeker for Slytherin."

Albus Dumbledore's brow shot up sharply. "Well," he replied, eyes twinkling, "As you are both his Heads of House, I can find no reason to object. However, it might be a bit problematic when Gryffindor plays against Slytherin, don't you think?"

"Harry," the Headmaster said softly, "Come here."

Harry squeezed between the two professors to stand in front of Dumbledore's desk. There was a pause, and he got the impression that the older man expected him to say something.

Finally, he asked, "Headmaster, were any of the other dual sortings Quidditch players?"

"One or two," Dumbledore admitted lightly.

"How did they play?"

"In most cases, the student played for both teams against the houses they were not a part of, and a secondary seeker was employed when their houses played against one another." Dumbledore looked at Harry slyly. "Of course, there was one case where a very resourceful student found a spell that enabled him to divide himself into two bodies."

Harry took a moment to consider. Finally he said, "Would I be able to use that spell?"

"It's a very advanced spell, Harry, but if you are able to master is, I don't see why not. Unless," the Headmaster glanced at Snape and McGonagall, "there are any objections?"

Both professors shook their heads, and Dumbledore instantly brightened. "Well then, the incantation is 'Alteralius.'"

Harry flicked his hand to the side, and his wand slipped from its holster and fell securely into his hand.

Dumbledore continued blithely, "Try not to get your hopes up, my boy. It's an extremely difficult spell, and it may take you awhile to-"

Softly, Harry whispered, "_Alteralius_." He felt a momentary discomfort, as though he was being pulled apart. The feeling subsided a moment later, and Harry found himself staring at himself, twice. The double vision was a bit awkward.

Both Snape and McGonagall were staring at him in shock. Dumbledore's words trailed off, and for a moment it seemed to Harry that the Headmaster's eyes lost their sparkle.

Mildly, the elderly wizard queried, "Lemon drop?"

He reached out his left hand, consciously willing himself to do so twice, and graciously accepted. The burst of flavor in his mouth was echoed, and both of his mouths replied softly, "Thank you."

There was a slightly tense moment, and one of Harry's mouths began, "Out of curiosity, Headmaster-"

"-is there an incantation to put me back into one body?" his other mouth finished.

"The incantation is 'Ambo,'" Dumbledore replied.

Both Snape and McGonagall were still open-mouthed as Harry repeated in concert, "_Ambo_."

Back in one body, Harry glanced at Dumbledore. The older man's eyes had narrowed marginally. A quick peek at the two professors showed that they were still shocked, but there was something like dawning respect in Snape's dark eyes.

"Now then," the Headmaster finally said, "I believe there are a few mechanics that need to be worked out."

Professor McGonagall's mouth snapped shut with an audible click. It only took a moment for the three adults to launch into a discussion about working out practice schedules, training programs, and finding Harry two brooms.

It was at this that Harry uncomfortably cleared his throat. "I, ah, already have two brooms," he said softly.

"Which models?" Professor McGonagall demanded.

"A Nimbus 1996, and a Nimbus 2000," Harry replied, staring at the ground.

Professor McGonagall's pursed her lips. "We'll have to look into getting you a second Nimbus 2000, then. It would be unfair to one of your houses otherwise."

Snape sneered, "Top of the line for Famous Harry Potter."

"Severus." Dumbledore's voice was the harshest Harry had ever heard. The Potions Professor's sneer lessened a little. Dumbledore continued, "Well then, I believe that's everything. Harry, if I might talk to you for a moment."

Clearly miffed at having been dismissed, Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape swept out of the room.

"Headmaster?" Harry said softly.

Dumbledore sighed, suddenly looking very old. "You do realize, Harry, that I didn't expect to have to deal with this until next year." The older man brightened abruptly. "At any rate, that was a skillful bit of work you did with the spell. I'm quite impressed."

Harry felt his face go red. "Thank you, sir."

"Now, I do believe you've missed the end of your flying lesson, but if you cut through your rooms, you'll have just enough time to make it to Charms. You know the way, yes?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied. "Thank you, sir."

"Off with you, then!" Dumbledore's wizened face broke out into a grin.

Harry made his way to the room with all of the doors, slipping through the one that led to his room. Offering a murmured hello and goodbye to Samson and Hedwig, he made his way to Charms.

Thinking of Draco helped him to ignore the whispers.

Professor Flitwick glanced up as Harry entered the classroom. "Mr. Potter!" he squeaked. "Um, have a seat, have a seat. I was just in the middle of roll call."

Harry slipped into the open seat next to Draco, and as soon as the professor had turned away, the blonde leaned over and hissed, "Where _were_ you this morning?"

"I..." Harry stared into the angry silver-blue eyes. "I needed to get out. I went for a ride on one of the school brooms and lost track of time."

Draco's eyes shifted to the side. His voice seemed strained as he muttered, "I'm sorry if I... made you uncomfortable."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Isn't that why you left? Because you woke up next to me?" An embarrassed blush fussed the blonde boy's cheeks.

"No," Harry said slowly, "The mirror in the bathrooms... said something to me."

Instantly, Draco's eyes were once more searching Harry's face. "Really?"

"Really."

Draco grinned, the switch from angry and embarrassed to thrilled and relieved making him look like a completely different person.

Thankful that his friend wasn't angry with him, Harry quickly related the story of what had happened during his flying lesson, how Ron had stolen his ring, how he'd thought he was in trouble when Professor McGonagall pulled him aside, and how he was apparently Seeker for both of his Houses.

Draco listened, wide-eyed, completely ignoring the Charms lesson, and his jaw hit the desktop when he found out Harry was Seeker.

"Are you bloody _serious_?" the blonde hissed.

Harry nodded.

For the rest of Charms class, Draco shook his head, muttering to himself.

Harry's final class of the day was Double Potions with Slytherin and Gryffindor. Having seen the way that Professor Snape disliked him, it was the one class that he wasn't looking forward to. With Draco by his side, he steeled himself against both Snape and Gryffindor, and headed towards the dungeons.

o


	5. Book 1, Chapter 05: Lettered Awareness

Title: In Memory I

Author: Becka

Chapter 5: Lettered Awareness

o

As the students shuffled in, Gryffindor and Slytherin divided once more, each house sitting at the opposite ends of the room. The desks were paired, allowing two students at each section, and Harry noted that the stations were made of stone instead of wood.

Everyone immediately began laying out their cauldrons, phials, and scales, along with parchments, quills, and inks. Harry silently wished that students were allowed to use whatever cauldron they wanted, because the standard size two pewter cauldron was rather substandard compared to the ones he'd practiced with.

Professor Snape swept into the classroom, robes billowing impressively, and everyone instantly settled down. With the thunderously dark expression on his face, Harry thought the older man looked like a storm cloud.

Roll call was the first order of business, and Harry noted that the professor's voice was soft and low. He didn't need more than a whisper to keep students in line.

Once Professor Snape finished calling out the names, he began, "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving, many of you will hardly believe this is magic." He sneered, "I don't expect you to understand the beauty of what I teach, but I do expect you to learn. If you are willing, I can show you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death – if you aren't as big a bunch of imbeciles as I usually have to teach."

"Potter," Professor Snape said sharply, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry blinked and answered automatically, "If the wormwood is pure, you get The Draught of Living Death, sir. If there are any impurities, the potion created could be one of several variants, all of which are highly poisonous."

Without a pause, Snape barked, "Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

"In the stomach of a goat, sir."

"And its purpose?"

"It's a vital ingredient in creating the antidote to most poisons."

Harry almost found himself enjoying the inquisition. Avery, the shadow who'd taught Harry about potions, had often drilled him in the same manner.

"What," Snape drawled, eyeing Harry shrewdly, "is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"There is no difference, sir. They –" Harry cut himself off abruptly, deciding it was better to only answer the question that was asked. Professor Snape was not the sort of man who seemed to want idle information.

"They what, Potter?"

"They're the same plant, sir," Harry finished softly, looking at his desk. "Monkshood or wolfsbane, also known as aconite, has little use unless brewing Wolfsbane, a potion designed to allow people with lycanthropy to retain their human awareness when in their transformed state."

Snape stared at him for a moment. Finally he said, "As you're part Slytherin, it's nice to see you're not completely hopeless." He glanced around at the rest of the class who'd been watching the exchange and barked, "Well? Why aren't you taking notes?"

The classroom was a flurry as students fumbled with their quills and parchments.

Draco leaned over to Harry and whispered, "I think you impressed him."

For some reason, the words had an ominous ring.

Before Harry could respond, Professor Snape said, "Take out your texts. You'll be making a simple cure for boils – instructions on page seventeen."

The students set to work quickly, and Draco quietly read the instructions. The potion was simple, but Harry decided to let Draco do the actual brewing; he offered to prepare the ingredients being used instead. He was curious to see if his blonde friend had been taught to the same extent as himself.

As they worked, Professor Snape wandered between students. He said little to Harry, but whenever he caught sight of Draco's cauldron, he often complimented the younger boy. Harry had to agree; though the potion was simple, Draco worked with the flawless ease of someone who'd been instructed by a master.

"We need a few more dried nettles," Draco muttered to Harry. "This is less than a quarter of an ounce."

"I'll get them," Harry said. He stood and headed for the table with the ingredients.

As he walked by where Ron and another Gryffindor were working, he noticed that the redhead was about to add the porcupine quills to the cauldron before taking it off the fire – an act that would result in the cauldron exploding with the still-corrosive potion.

"You don't want to do that," Harry said softly.

"What?" the Gryffindor Harry didn't recognize asked.

"You need to take the cauldron off of the fire before adding those," Harry replied, pointing at where Ron's hand was poised above the cauldron.

Ron sneered, "Whatever. You're just trying to fudge us up." He dropped the quills into the cauldron, and the surface of the potion exploded almost instantly. The yellow liquid splattered on both Ron and Harry, and Ron collapsed on the floor instantaneously, whimpering in pain. Angry, red boils puckered his skin.

With a frown, Harry scratched absently at one of the irritating marks on his own skin, and he wondered why the redhead was crying. The boils weren't _that_ painful.

Harry hesitated. He really didn't want to draw any more attention to himself, but Ron was still on the floor whimpering in pain, and no one had made a move to help him. Curiously, Harry glanced around the room to find that all eyes were on him.

Professor Snape came storming out of his office, growling, "Who added the porcupine quills before-" The Potions Master stopped short when he saw Harry.

"Excuse me, Professor," Harry said politely, "May I take Ron to the Hospital Wing?"

Mutely, Snape nodded. Harry knelt and pulled Ron to his feet easily, then draped the other boy's arm across his shoulder. Ron was in so much pain that he didn't even mutter any insults at Harry.

As the pair made their way through the door, Harry heard Snape bark, "Mr. Finnigan, would you care to tell me what happened?"

Harry supported the redhead as they limped through the halls, and Ron groaned, "Do you even know where you're going?"

"Yes," Harry replied softly, but he didn't elaborate. _Hogwarts, A History_ had a generalized map of the main castle inside, and something had prompted him to memorize it.

As they reached the entrance of the Hospital, a small, plump woman with a round face greeted them. She took one look at Ron, did a double take at Harry, then quickly hurried them off to beds, despite Harry's protest that he was fine.

"What happened?" she asked as she reached for several bottled potions on her shelves.

"A cauldron exploded," Harry replied, having reached a compromise. He sat on the bed, but refused to lie down. "We were making a cure for boils."

The woman huffed, blowing a few graying strands of hair from her eyes. "Professor Snape's class, I imagine." She muttered softly, "Why can't he ever start the firsties off on something that _doesn't_ cause bodily harm to students when done wrong?"

Harry glanced at Ron who lay in the bed beside him. The redhead's eyes were tightly shut, and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

With a small frown, Harry looked back at the mediwitch as she continued to tinker with a small vial of what appeared to be a healing potion. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and asked, "Excuse me, ah...?"

"My name is Madam Pomfrey, child," she replied, not looking at him.

Harry bristled a little. He wasn't a child. Instead of voicing the thought, he continued, "May I be excused now, Madam Pomfrey? I'd like to get back to class."

At this, the woman turned and stared at him incredulously. "You can't go back to class until I've healed you! I'm surprised you're not in the same state as your friend over there."

Harry blinked. "I'm fine."

Madam Pomfrey shook her head, turning back to her work. Harry heard her muttering, "Obviously in shock. Young man, when the adrenaline wears off, you'll be _most_ grateful I don't want to return you to class."

It only took a few moments for her to finish with her preparations. She made both Harry and Ron drink a foul tasting potion – Harry identified it as a second level healing draught – and insisted on them applying a salve on their burns and boils.

Harry applied the salve to himself while Madam Pomfrey assisted Ron. He was careful to make sure neither of them caught sight of the scarring on his arms. When he'd finished, the dull throbbing disappeared.

"Now then," Madam Pomfrey said, "you two just rest up here for a bit. I'll let you leave in time for dinner."

After cleaning up the area, she excused herself and retreated into her office. Harry sighed and settled back onto the bed, wondering why the mediwitch insisted on keeping him in the Hospital Wing. His Uncle had done far worse to him and usually set Harry back to work immediately.

Beside him, Ron cleared his throat.

Harry glanced over at the redhead.

Ron's eyes were fixed on the foot of his bed as he muttered curtly, "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

The redhead glared at him. "Don't think this means I like you or anything. You're still a slimy Slytherin git."

Harry shrugged, and the pair remained silent until Madam Pomfrey came back in and told them both to go to dinner.

o

After dinner that night, Harry excused himself and retreated to his room. He had too many questions on his mind, and he needed someone to ask. He pulled out a sheet of parchment and addressed it to his first Shadow.

He related the events of his first two days at Hogwarts – his dual sorting, his classes, having been made Seeker for both Slytherin and Gryffindor, and the Bloody Baron's interest in him. His questions ranged from wanting to know if ghosts could do magic to why Professor Snape seemed to dislike him. Last, he told Lucius about Professor Quirrell and how his scar had bled.

He sealed the letter, three pages in total, muttering a soft spell so that only Lucius could open it, and hooted softly, **{Beauty, would you deliver this for me?}**

Hedwig swept from her perch, talons hooking around the creamy parchment. She nipped his ear in affirmation, and gracefully exited through the open window.

Harry settled himself down and began working through his Herbology assignment as he waited for her return. During class, he'd noted what the herbs were, so it was only a matter of describing them and listing their uses.

Almost an hour later, he'd completed nearly half of them. He was just finishing up the detailed properties of eucalyptus when Hedwig returned and dropped a note onto his desk. Harry opened it eagerly.

Mr. Potter:

You're a Slytherin. Act like it.

Harry stared at the scrap of paper. It only took him a moment to read into his Shadow's words.

It wasn't a good idea to contact his first Shadow directly. Not a problem. He could ask Draco to send his letters when he wrote to his father; after all, there wasn't anything suspicious about a son sending letters to his father, whereas Harry wasn't even supposed to know Lucius.

But Lucius was Slytherin too. The message meant more than just that.

He needed to make a conscious effort _not_ to say or do anything that would arouse suspicion, whereas for the past two days, he'd apparently done nothing but. He'd identified several herbs in Herbology without using his text. He'd transfigured a match into a needle with the same ease as a professor. He'd been made Seeker for both of his houses, and he'd answered Professor Snape's questions in Potions effortlessly.

Perhaps worst of all, he'd cast Alteralius in front of Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape.

Gryffindors didn't think about the consequences of their actions; Slytherins thought about nothing but.

But he could repair the damage.

It wasn't uncommon for a student to naturally excel at one or two things. Harry could – had to – work with that, because it wasn't as though he could show potential on the first day and subsequently become an abysmal failure.

There wasn't much he could do about becoming Seeker. He'd already agreed to that. And Professor McGonagall had called him a natural at Transfiguration in front of the entire class.

Toning down his knowledge of Herbology wouldn't be a problem. Only Gregory, Vincent, Neville, and Ron had seen the ease with which he'd worked on their project. Greg and Vince were both raised by Slytherins; they'd understand when he wasn't as forthcoming with his knowledge. Neville probably wouldn't say anything, and Ron was so focused on wanting to see Harry fail that he'd rejoice.

The Slytherins hadn't gone anywhere with Magical Theory or Charms yet. There wasn't any damage to repair.

So long as he didn't perform any magic as effortlessly as Alteralius, Dumbledore suspicion could be allayed. And if either Snape or McGonagall asked how he'd done it, he could answer that he honestly didn't know, but that he'd really wanted to be Seeker. One of the first things Lucius had taught him was that spells responded well to desire; the more someone wanted a spell to succeeded, the higher the chances it would.

Potions was the only class that presented a problem. On one hand, it didn't seem as though Professor Snape had any particular fondness for Harry, so if Harry began answering most questions with "I don't know," Snape would jump on the opportunity to call him a failure. On the other hand, the professor was a Slytherin; he would be suspicious of such a drastic change.

Harry was counting on Snape's dislike to override those suspicions, but he couldn't be sure. Only time would tell.

As he stared at the note, Harry remembered his questions regarding the Bloody Baron. Association with such a ghost would arouse suspicion, and yet, the Baron had the potential to be a valuable ally.

Perhaps he could ask the Baron to not show such an interest in him in public? The ghost had probably been a Slytherin – he would understand Harry's need for subterfuge.

And as for Quirrell, Harry sighed, there was little he could do. There was definitely something strange about the man, but until he further observed the D.A.D.A teacher, he had no concrete proof.

Silently, Harry stood and opened the sixth lock on his trunk. He descended into his study, pulling a Bertie Bott's jelly from his pocket. He transfigured the bean into a small picture frame and mounted Lucius' note.

As he set the frame on his desk, he smiled.

He'd been acting like a Gryffindor; however, the current situation called for Slytherin subtlety. The note was a welcome reminder.

o

The next morning, Harry debated which house bathroom to use. Ultimately, he decided that until he managed to sort things out with the Gryffindors, he'd keep to the Slytherin rooms.

The mirror was already awake when he entered. "Morin,' sweetcheeks," came the chipper, teasing voice.

"Good morning," Harry replied quietly. He felt extremely self-conscious under the mirror's gaze, and he made it a point to bathe and dress as quickly as possible.

He had an hour to kill before breakfast, so the first thing he did was seek out the Bloody Baron. After fifteen minutes of fruitless searching, he ran into Peeves.

Peeves blew a raspberry at him and singsonged, "Oo-oh! Is the Ickle Firsty lo-oost?"

Harry shook his head, then politely asked, "Do you know where I can find the Bloody Baron?"

The poltergeist squinted at him. "What d'you want with his Bloodiness?"

Harry was about to reply when the Peeves let out a little shriek and waved his transparent hand at Harry frantically. "You's the one he took under his wing!" Peeves jerked his thumb towards one of the corridors, "Fourth door on the left, that's where his Bloodiness is!" He fled without another word.

Harry watched the ghost disappear through the nearest wall. He didn't understand why people didn't like the poltergeist; Peeves was a bit odd, but he'd seemed quite eager to help.

Following the poltergeist's instructions, he made his way to a heavy, oak door. He nibbled his lip and hesitantly knocked.

No one answered. Harry pulled the door open a crack and peeked his head inside. The room was small and furnished in tapestries and an upholstered bed and chair that looked like they'd seen better days. Cobwebs draped the corners of the ceiling, and there was a dark stain on the stone floor by the bed.

The Bloody Baron sat in a chair by the cold, empty fireplace, staring up at the portrait of a regal woman above the mantle.

At the door's creak, the Baron turned and fixed his gaunt eyes on Harry.

"Boy," he said quietly in greeting.

"Baron," Harry replied in the same tone.

The Baron gestured to the other chair by the fireplace, and Harry carefully closed the door behind him as he took a seat. The moment he touched the chair, a strange chill danced up his spine.

There was a moment of companionable silence where the boy and the ghost regarded one another. Finally Harry said formally, "I have a request, if you please."

"You are my prodigy, boy," the Baron replied, "If it is in my power, I will grant it."

Taking care with his words, Harry explained the delicate situation he was in – both the attention he seemed to be attracting, and why he needed fewer reasons for people to focus on him. For some reason, he trusted the bloody ghost with information he'd never revealed to anyone else at Hogwarts, including his Shadows and his true purpose in attending Hogwarts.

After Harry had finished his story, the Baron nodded slowly. "I take it you wish me to make my interest in you less... public."

Harry said softly, "I do."

"Very well, boy," the ghost replied. "You have my word. I shall not approach you at meals, nor where the eyes of this school may follow. In exchange, you will arrange one day a week to speak with me here."

Still unsure of what the Baron's interest in him entailed, Harry slowly agreed.

The Baron rested back into his chair, turning his gaze back onto the portrait. "Until next week, boy."

Recognizing the dismissal, Harry pulled himself from the chair and silently slipped from the room. He met up with Draco in the corridor, and they headed to breakfast.

During the meal, several owls fluttered in, dropping off letters to the students. Draco received a small package from home that contained several books, a carton of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, and two letters. The rest of the Slytherins presumed one was from his mother and one was from his father.

Draco covertly slipped one of the letters to Harry. Glancing down, Harry saw his name on the front, written in his first Shadow's elegant script. Harry slipped the letter into his pocket and Draco graciously gave him three boxes of the Bertie Bott's Beans.

Once again, they were two of the first students to leave the Great Hall; only a few whispers followed them to their first class - Double D.A.D.A with Slytherin and Ravenclaw.

As they entered the classroom, Harry noticed that the tables were arranged to sit four students at each. Hermione Granger and Pansy Parkinson, two Ravenclaws, were already present, heads bowed together over _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_.

Unobtrusively, Harry slipped into the seat next to her. Draco sat beside him, a small frown on his face. Harry thought he was probably wondering why he'd chosen to sit beside the two girls when every other table was empty.

Hermione glanced at him. "You're Harry Potter," she said as she studied him. "I've read all about you."

"You're Hermione Granger," he replied. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Same."

"Draco Malfoy," the blonde said, unwilling to be excluded from the conversation. He extended his hand and Hermione shook it politely.

"Pansy Parkinson," Pansy said. She was staring at Harry with something akin to awe.

As the rest of the students shuffled in, Hermione said softly, "I heard you transfigured a match into a needle in your first Transfiguration class. Some of the upperclassmen wouldn't shut up about it."

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "I wish they would. I was probably just lucky." He ignored the incredulous look that both Pansy and Draco gave him.

"I did it in my first class, too," Hermione said. "Did Professor McGonagall assign you to try and transfigure it back?"

"She did," Harry replied. Then he lied, "I haven't been able to, though."

"Really? Neither have I." Suddenly Hermione graced him with a wide smile. "Would you care to work together on it?"

Harry nodded.

Professor Quirrell entered the classroom, followed by the thick scent of garlic. Harry noticed that his right eye twitched uncontrollably, and he seemed extremely nervous.

"H-hello," he greeted the class. "My name is P-p-professor Quirrell. There are all s-s-sorts of d-dangerous c-c-creatures in the wizarding world, and hopefully this c-class will help to p-p-prepare you for them."

The class wasn't nearly as exciting or informative as the ones his shadows had taught him. Professor Quirrell relied heavily on the texts, occasionally lapsing into stories about the creatures he'd encountered. His information wasn't incorrect, but it wasn't nearly in-depth enough to be useful if anyone in the class _did_ have a run-in with a vampire or a hag.

About halfway through the class, Harry decided that the following weeks would probably be more interesting. Professor Quirrell promised that they'd study one common dark creature each week in more detail.

It was about that time that Harry began to think that he'd been wrong about Quirrell. Though there was a thick cloud of dark energy billowing around the man's head, nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. Perhaps the professor had been cursed during his travels and didn't know about it?

Quirrell turned to write something on the chalkboard, and Harry was presented with the back of the man's turban. Searing pain – the kind Harry had come to associate with Uncle Vernon burning his arm on the stove – lanced through his scar.

Harry couldn't contain the small whimper that forced its way from the back of his throat, and he smacked his palm against his forehead.

Draco, Hermione, and Pansy all turned to look at him, and Hermione whispered, "Are you all right?"

"My head hurts," Harry managed to get out, strangely proud that his voice didn't tremble.

"Let me see," Draco said, reaching out to tug Harry's hand away from his head.

The blonde gasped, as did both girls, and Draco called out, "Professor!"

Professor Quirrell turned back to the class and the pain subsided to a dull throb. Quirrell hurried to where they sat, and his eyes went wide.

"Y-you're b-b-bleeding!" the professor stuttered.

The rest of the class all turned to stare, and the whispering that Harry hated so much started up.

Thoughtfully, Harry frowned and wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. It came away smeared with blood.

"I am," Harry stated softly. As an afterthought, he added, "Sorry."

"N-nothing 's-s-sorry' about it!" Professor Quirrell replied. He turned to Draco. "W-would you t-t-take Mr. P-p-potter to the H-hospital Wing?"

"Yes, Professor," Draco replied absently, already pulling Harry towards the door. Once in the halls, he asked, "What was all that about?"

"I'm not exactly sure," Harry replied, uncomfortable that Draco had grabbed his hand in class. Politely, he extracted his hand from the blonde's grip under the pretense of having to rub his forehead. "After dinner, come to my room. We can talk about it there."

"Sure," Draco replied easily. Suddenly he slapped his own forehead. "Wait! I wanted to meet Greg and Vince in the Library! How about I talk to them for say, an hour or so, and then I'll meet you in your room. Deal?"

Harry nodded. A few minutes later, they were in the Hospital Wing; Madam Pomfrey greeted them cheerily. "Why Mr. Potter, two visits in as many days? Better not make it three, or I'll start to think you like me."

Beside him, Draco snickered softly. Rather than answer the friendly jibe, Harry said, "Professor Quirrell sent me here because my scar started bleeding in class."

Madam Pomfrey's demeanor changed instantly. Her face was white as a sheet as she led him to one of the beds and ordered Draco to stay with him. "I'll be back in just a moment," she said shakily. She disappeared into her office, and Harry heard her whispering frantically to someone.

Draco leaned in close to him and said softly, "So, what happened yesterday?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"Well, in Potions. I saw the Weasel talking to you, and then the cauldron blew up, and when everything settled down, he was on the ground and you were just _standing_ there, and you both looked terrible-"

"It wasn't that bad," Harry protested.

Draco quirked a brow, reminding Harry of Lucius. "Not that bad? Even if I don't like him, I'll admit that Weasley had every reason to be crying. Question is – why weren't you?"

"Madam Pomfrey said it was shock," Harry replied. Inwardly, he was groaning. He could control not standing out in class without a problem, but how was he supposed to fake a "normal" reaction to pain? It _hadn't_ hurt, really, not like his scar had, and he had the feeling he'd look like a complete idiot if he tried to cry or whimper next time a cauldron exploded.

"Huh," Draco replied, completely unaware of Harry's internal battle.

Madam Pomfrey appeared in the doorway of her office. She marched over to where they sat and said sternly, "I've just informed the Headmaster, and he's insistent that you stay here and rest up for a bit."

"But–" Harry definitely didn't want to miss another class.

"No 'buts,' young man," the mediwitch said sternly. "Though I'm afraid I'm going to have to kick your friend out. I need to perform a few tests."

Draco bristled. "I can't stay?"

Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "Back to class with you, and give your professor this-" She handed the blonde an excuse-note. "You'll see Mr. Potter at lunch."

After Draco grudgingly left, the mediwitch performed a series of strange tests on Harry, ranging from pressing different colored strips of paper to his scar, to muttering several nonsensical incantations over it. After a while, Harry started to get the feeling that the mediwitch was just wasting time, but he couldn't imagine why she'd want to do so.

When she was through, she told him, "It will take me awhile to get the results from the tests, but if your scar bleeds again, you come directly to see me. Clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Harry said. She dismissed him.

After Draco grilled him about what had happened during lunch, the Slytherins headed to Magical Theory. Apparently Draco had talked to Blaise Zabini and Millicent Bulstrode, because the two first years flanked either side of him as they walked through the halls, glaring at anyone who so much as gave Harry a second look.

The whispers were still there, but somehow Harry found he didn't mind them nearly as much.

Magical Theory was a bit of a bore. Professor Binns had them read off their assignment – the pronunciation of the first ten incantations on their list. Harry received five points (to Gryffindor and Slytherin) for his flawless pronunciation, though he'd had to consciously remember to not actually _cast_ the spells.

After class, he and Draco parted ways. It wasn't difficult for Harry to find Gregory and Vincent because the two bulky Hufflepuffs were waiting for him outside the Slytherin dorms.

"Hey, Harry," Vince greeted him with a grin. "Neville forgot to bring the box of herbs along, so he went back to the dorm to get them. I told him we'd meet him there."

Harry nodded and they began walking towards the Hufflepuff dorms. He said softly, "I talked to Draco. He asked you to meet him in the Library after dinner tonight."

"Really? Thanks, Harry," Vince said, still grinning.

"Thanks," Greg echoed.

They reached the Hufflepuff dorms just as Neville slipped through the portrait with the box in his hands. He was red-faced and breathing hard. "Sorry 'bout that," he gasped out.

"Say," Vince said suddenly, "Since we're already here, do you want to just work on the project in the Hufflepuff common room?"

Greg blinked. "That would be easier. Are other houses allowed in, though?"

Harry tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. He couldn't remember reading anything in the rulebook against it. "I think so," he finally said.

"Great!" Neville exclaimed.

When Vince and Greg looked at him, Neville blushed, "'Cause I forgot my book bag..."

"You'd forget your head if it wasn't attached to your shoulders," Vince said fondly, reaching out to tussle Neville's hair. Something like envy flicked across Greg's face, but it was gone so fast that Harry thought he might have imagined it.

"Eh," Vince looked at Harry. "Would you mind covering your ears for a second? Password, and all that."

Harry obediently pressed his palms to his ears. Vincent said the password, and the four of them entered the Hufflepuff common room.

Having only seen the inside of the Slytherin common room, Harry took a moment to study his surroundings. The house colors, yellow and black, were evident in the thick, shaggy carpet and the neatly trimmed walls. The chairs and couches that were arranged in the room were plush and welcoming, and there were several stained-glass windows portraying famous Hufflepuffs of the past.

"So," Vince said, settling down onto one of the chairs, "Did you get a chance to research the properties of eucalyptus?"

o

Almost two hours later, Harry, Vince, Greg, and Neville had nearly completed their assignment. All they needed to do was find one uncommon use for each herb and fungi. They'd all agreed to divide the research, each of them looking up forty of the herbs. Neville had volunteered to talk to Ron about his part of the project.

Overall, the time Harry had spent with the Hufflepuffs had been pleasant. He'd even gotten a chance to meet a few upperclassmen; unlike most of the second and third years, the upperclassmen hadn't been completely in awe of him just because he was "the" Harry Potter.

Surprisingly, Zacharias Smith, a fourth year, had pulled him aside on his way out, and told him what a pleasure it was to meet him. Apparently Zacharias' parents were both shadows, and they'd refused to give him Harry's mark. The Hufflepuff had said they wanted him to earn the mark from Harry himself, and Zacharias vowed he would support Harry in every way possible.

The conversation had been a bit uncomfortable; Zacharias' fanatical zeal had caused Harry to wonder how many of his shadows wanted their children to "earn" his mark.

Once outside the Hufflepuff dorms, Harry wove through the throngs of students headed towards the Great Hall. He wasn't really hungry, but he decided he should probably attend dinner anyway. Draco had made such a huge fuss when Harry missed breakfast, after all. Besides, he needed to tell the Slytherin that Greg and Vince had agreed to meet him in the library.

o

After dinner, Harry returned to the Slytherin dorms. The letter from Lucius had weighed heavily in his pocket throughout the entire day, and he was anxious to see what his first Shadow had to say. Hopefully some of the questions he'd asked would be answered.

As he entered his room, Hedwig hooted, **{You look tired, fledge.}**

**{I'm fine, beauty,}** he replied, sitting on his bed. Samson wiggled out from beneath the covers at the foot of the bed and slithered up Harry's arm. The snake curled around Harry's neck and sighed contentedly.

Harry stroked Samson's head fondly, then opened his letter from Lucius, eagerly scanning its contents.

Harry -

Only two days at Hogwarts and you already have people talking. Some of it's to be expected, I suppose. Try and keep a low profile until the novelty of the "Boy-Who-Lived" wears off.

A dual sorting? I'm impressed, though I can't say it took me entirely by surprise. You are the heir of both Gryffindor and Slytherin; the Sorting Hat may have sensed that inherently. From what I recall, there hasn't been a dual sorting in nearly one hundred years. I trust you will make the most of it.

Congratulations on your position as Seeker. I know that you will make me proud, though I must admit, coupled with your dual sorting, you will have some difficulty redirecting the public's eye.

Now, to answer a few of your questions. I am not sure why the Bloody Baron is so interested in you, and I don't believe it's possible for a ghost to perform magic, but in the package I sent to Draco, I've enclosed a book for you. It's a history of the various ghosts that reside at Hogwarts, and it goes a bit more in-depth than what's listed in _Hogwarts, A History_. Perhaps you might find it useful.

As for Severus' dislike of you, I believe I can shed a little light on that. Both of your parents, as well as Peter, Black, and a man named Remus Lupin, attended Hogwarts the same year as Severus and I. Your father and his friends were quite cruel to Severus, but beyond that, there was an incident in... oh, our fifth years, perhaps? Lupin is a werewolf, you see, and Black thought if might be amusing to show Severus how to get into the pen they kept him in during his transformation.

Severus was nearly killed that night, but your father rescued him. As a result, he owes your father a wizard's debt. As your father is dead, by the hand of the Dark Lord who Severus followed, he probably feels the only way to repay that debt is to protect you. Peter has often told you how much you look like your father. I imagine it irks Severus that he has to repay his debt to a virtual carbon copy of the man he loathed.

I am very distressed about what you've told me of Professor Quirrell. As far as I know, he is not connected to the Dark Lord in any way. I will look into the matter. Perhaps all you can do at the moment is to observe him. Please keep me informed.

As you've probably deduced, it will be far less suspicious if you send your letters to me through Draco. Likewise, all of my letters, as well as the letters of your other shadows, will be sent through him.

I'm very proud of you, Harry, and I find myself truly missing our lessons together. I look forward to seeing you during Christmas, and I ask that you forgive the numerous letters I know I will likely be sending.

Your faithful Shadow,

Lucius

Harry smiled, touched by his Shadow's concern.

The letter was quite informative, and it reinforced the conclusions he'd come to. He needed a lower profile, certainly. He needed to figure out why the Bloody Baron was so interested in him, and above all, he needed to know why Quirrell made his scar bleed.

A knock on one of his doors interrupted his thoughts, and Harry was momentarily at a loss. Which of the three doors was he supposed to answer?

Finally he decided that the Gryffindors didn't know where his room was, and it was highly unlikely that Dumbledore would do anything so polite as to knock. He stood, tucked the letter into his pocket, and opened the door to the Slytherin dorms.

Draco grinned impishly at him.

"Hey, Harry," the blonde said, sounding out of breath. "Can I come in?"

Wordlessly, Harry stood back from the door and allowed Draco to enter.

Harry shut the door, and Draco immediately went to Hedwig's perch. He reached out and gently stroked the top of her feathery head.

"So," Draco said, looking up, though his hand continued to pet the beautiful owl, "what was all that about with your scar bleeding?"

It took Harry a moment to decide how much to reveal to the other Slytherin. As always, his thoughts looped in the mantra that Draco was Lucius' son, and if he couldn't trust a Malfoy, who could he trust?

"I'm not sure, honestly," Harry said as he sat on the edge of his bed. "It's something to do with Professor Quirrell."

"What do you mean?" Draco asked. He reluctantly let his hand fall away from Hedwig and sat next to Harry.

"During the Sorting Feast, I noticed he had a lot of dark energy around him. You know Professor Snape was a Death Eater, right?"

"Yeah. My father told me."

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Quirrell was leeching off of the energy from Snape's Dark Mark. My scar bled then, too."

Draco frowned. "And the only other time it bled was in Quirrell's class. I see what you mean."

With another sigh, Harry flopped back onto the large bed. It felt rather sinful, because he'd never had such a comfortable bed before. He looked up at Draco, only to find the blonde staring at him with the strangest expression on his angular face.

Draco blushed and looked away. "Well," he said, "We'll have to watch him. I'll talk to the other Slytherins and tell them to keep an eye out."

"Thank you, Draco," Harry said softly.

"Why don't you ever call me Dray?" the blonde asked suddenly. "Draco is so... formal. I mean, we're friends, right?"

Harry didn't understand why the difference in names was so important to Draco, but he immediately responded, "We're friends."

Draco's face broke out into a wide grin. "Right. Well, I guess I'll see you in the morning, then?"

Harry nodded. As Draco pulled the door open, he grinned and called back, "G'night, Harry."

Softly, Harry responded, "Goodnight, Dray." The name seemed a little strange on his tongue, and it took him a moment to realize that other then Gregory and Vincent, no one had ever really _wanted_ to be that familiar with him.

Hedwig hooted softly, **{I like him, fledge. Will you be keeping him, then?}**

Harry stared at the door, and his heart skipped a beat. It was a strange feeling. Quietly he responded, **{Only if he wants to be kept.}**

o


	6. Interlude: Of Fairytales

Title: In Memory I

Author: Becka

Interlude: Of Fairytales

o

From the time I was a baby, my father told me bedtime stories about the Boy-Who-Lived. I once asked him when he started, and he confided that he whispered them to me in my crib.

My earliest memory was of one such story. I couldn't have been more than four or five, and I don't remember what happened that day. But I do remember my father's strong arms around me as he carried me to my bed. I remember the smell of his clothing, cypress and musk, and his velvet laughter as he tucked me snugly beneath my sheets.

And his smile, warm and full of pride, when I asked him to tell me a bedtime story.

His voice, soft, gentle, wove me the most marvelous tale about a boy with bright, green eyes.

I remember my father's shoulders, wide and sturdy beneath his robes, and the way that they filled my vision when I was too tired to keep my eyes open, but his story followed me to my dreams. And it began, as all fairytales do, with the words, "Once upon a time."

"Once upon a time," my father said to me, "there was a vast land known as the Broken Kingdom. A beautiful land filled with marvelous things. The Broken Kingdom had a king who was a fair man, a just man, a man full of ideals and the will to see them through."

His voice dropped low then, as he said, "But there was a curse upon the kingdom, an ancient curse, a terrible curse – the Broken Kingdom could only be ruled by a Broken King."

With the shadows of the torches flickering eerily across my walls, dancing with the moonlight that shone through my window, my father's eyes flashed.

"The man was one of many men who hoped to break this curse," he murmured, thoughtful, introspective, "And for a time, he succeeded. He remained true."

"Time, power, the curse," he said, sadly, regretful, "they broke the man. The man became the Broken King."

"What did he do, daddy?" I remember asking, and when he looked at me, I saw tears in his eyes. I'd never seen my father cry before, and I've only seen him cry once since.

"Terrible things," he said, and his voice caught in his throat, and his eyes... his eyes were blank. He looked lost, and old, and so very tired. "Terrible things."

After awhile, he came back to himself, and he said, "For years the Broken King ruled, and the people were afraid, but no one could do anything at all. All who fought were killed, because he was so powerful. And then one day, three travelers came from far away who knew nothing of the Broken Kingdom. A mother, a father, and a baby boy."

"The father and mother saw the state of the Broken Kingdom, saw the horrors, and they went to the king and they said, 'Why?' And the Broken King looked at them and he said, 'Because I can,' and he laughed as he killed them."

My father's voice was no longer strong, but he continued to speak even as the words splintered in his throat. "The king looked down and saw that the mother still held her child in her arms, and the child looked up with the greenest eyes anyone had ever seen. His parents were dead, but he did not cry. And the Broken King looked down at the child, and he raised his hand, and everyone who watched thought the boy would be killed."

My father took a deep, shuddering breath, and he said, "But the king stilled his hand. It wasn't that he couldn't kill a child, because he'd killed countless children before. But he looked into the eyes of that boy, and the boy looked back, and maybe it's because the boy was truly innocent, or maybe there was some shred of decency left inside the man that the curse couldn't touch, but the Broken King was no more. The boy became the Boy-Who-Lived."

"Is that what really happened?" I remember asking, confused, wondering.

"No," my father answered sadly. "But it's what I like to think."

And every night thereafter, my father told me that story, and as the years went by, the Broken King became the Dark Lord, and the Boy-Who-Lived became Harry Potter. And somehow Harry Potter became Harry, and in my dreams I saw him.

My father's voice lulled me each night, into the arms of the Sandman, and I dreamed of a boy who was so innocent that evil could not bear to touch him.

All my life, my father told me these stories.

To this day, reporters ask me how I could possibly love Harry Potter.

And to the end of time, I will answer them, "How could I not?"

Draco Malfoy, age 19

Excerpt from _In Memory I_

o


	7. Book 1, Chapter 06: Two Long Weeks

Title: In Memory I

Author: Becka

Chapter 6: Two Long Weeks

o

Harry dozed lightly on and off for about an hour. At 11:30, Samson hissed softly in his ear, and he sat up sharply.

_/ Samson? /_ Harry asked, rubbing his eyes.

_/ You don't want to missss your assstronomy classss, ssskin-brother, / _the little snake replied as he slithered up Harry's arm to coil around Harry's neck. _/ I wish to come along. /_

Belatedly, Harry remembered that he did indeed have a late-night astronomy class with the Gryffindors. His roster mentioned that the students would be met in their house common room by a professor and led to the astronomy tower.

Harry didn't think they'd send anyone to Slytherin to guide him, so he had no choice but to join the rest of the Gryffindors in the common room. No one knew about his room, but he hoped his appearance wouldn't cause too much trouble.

It only took him a moment to change into his school robes and gather his parchment and quills. Taking care not to jostle Samson, Harry took a deep breath and hesitantly opened the door that led to the Gryffindor dorms.

As he stepped out into the hallway, someone let out a startled exclamation and Harry was knocked off his feet. He landed in an ungraceful heap on the floor, and resisted the urge to tuck his face into his arms, thereby presenting the smallest possible target.

"Sorry 'bout that, mate. I didn't see you and – hey, is that you, Harry?"

Harry glanced up into Dean Thomas' concerned face.

"It is!" Dean exclaimed. "I thought you roomed with the Slytherins..."

Carefully, Harry pulled himself to his feet. Dean peeked his head into the open doorway and gave a low whistle. "Quite a room you've got. All that red and green makes me think about Christmas."

Harry shrugged as he brushed off his robes. He rarely thought about Christmas – the only difference between Christmas and every other day of the year was that Petunia usually ordered him to make more food.

"Are you going to Astronomy class?" Harry finally asked softly.

"Yeah!" Dean exclaimed, grinning wildly. "I always thought boarding schools were really strict, you know? But Hogwarts is great! I mean, taking a class at midnight? It's brilliant!" Dean paused. "You've got Astronomy with Gryffindor, then?"

Harry nodded. He reached out and gently shut the door to his room.

"Well, we're just supposed to go to the common rooms and wait for a professor, right?" Dean grinned. "I'll walk down with you."

"Thank you," Harry said. He fell into step beside the dark-skinned boy.

When they reached the Gryffindor common rooms, Harry saw that most of the first years were already there. When Ron caught sight of him, he stormed over and hissed, "What are you doing here?"

Harry shrugged helplessly. "I have Midnight Astronomy."

"How'd you get in?" another boy asked. Harry blinked at him quizzically, trying to remember the Gryffindor's name – Sean, perhaps? No, he remembered, Seamus. Seamus... Finnifart? Finnigerth?

Dean piped up, "Harry's got a room here, same as you an' me."

"I've never seen him here before," Ron insisted, glowering.

"You know that door by the front of the corridor that no one could open?" Dean said. "That's Harry's room."

The redhead gave Harry a measuring look, then turned away. "Whatever," he muttered.

A moment later, the portrait swung open and Professor McGonagall stepped inside. Her piercing hazel eyes swept through the small crowd of Gryffindor first years, and she called out, "Everyone here?"

There was a general mumble of assent. Professor McGonagall nodded her head and said formally, "For the rest of the semester, I'll meet you here at 11:55 sharp. Anyone who tries to sneak away from the group as we go to the Astronomy Tower will be severely punished when caught. Now then, follow me."

The students trailed obediently after their Head of House, and Harry found that even if he lost sight of the older woman, her shoes fell precisely and clearly on the stone floor, much in the same manner as her voice. It was simple to following the regimented click, click, clicking.

When they arrived at the Astronomy Tower, another middle-aged professor greeted them at the door. She was slender, with dark hair and bright blue eyes, which crinkled up when she smiled at them. Professor McGonagall exchanged a few words with her, too softly for the students to hear.

Harry's eyes swept across the room. The walls and ceiling were made of the same stone as the rest of the castle, and the area was sparsely furnished. The only indication that class could be held was a ring of chairs that lined the walls.

Professor McGonagall clapped her hands twice to get their attention and said, "I will be back in exactly one hour to bring you to the dorm." She excused herself and swept from the room.

The other professor smiled at them again, and indicated the chairs. "Well, then, have a seat."

They did so, and Harry ended up between Dean and a pretty girl with chestnut hair.

The older woman continued, "My name is Professor Sinistra, and welcome to Midnight Astronomy. There is much to explore in the vastness of space; we will be studying planets and their moons, stars and the constellations they make up, and the cycles of these heavenly objects."

With a wave of her wand, the roof disappeared, and the Gryffindors were left gawking at a beautiful night sky. Harry was more interested in the spell she'd used; his eyes followed the thread of magic, and he realized it was a simple transparency spell. He idly wondered if it worked from both directions; could someone on a broom see into the tower as he could see out?

Allowing a moment for the novelty of the spell to wear off, Professor Sinistra continued, "This class is a stepping stone in your time at Hogwarts; it applies to many of the subjects you will take in your following years. For example, Divination often uses the stars as an aid, and there are several potions that require a certain alignment of the planets or a waxing moon to brew properly. There are also magical creatures that can only be found during these cycles. But, to properly utilize this class, you _must_ apply yourself. Do not make the mistake of believing that once you are through here, you won't need to remember what you've learned."

"Now," the woman waved her wand again, and one of the constellations projected itself into the circle. "This particular constellation is known as Sagittarius, the Archer..."

o

By the end of the class, Harry had a small pile of parchments full of labeled sketches of constellations. He gently tucked them into his book bag.

At one o' clock exactly, Professor McGonagall appeared in the doorway, and led the students back to the dorm. Harry was extremely tired, and it didn't help that Samson was softly snoring around his neck; the little snake hadn't found the astronomy lesson very interesting.

Just before he slipped into his room, Dean called out, "G'night, Harry."

Harry paused, glancing back to find the dark-skinned youth staring at him. He replied softly, "Goodnight."

Thursday's classes were a mix of good and bad. During flying lessons, Ron tried to knock him off his broom, twice. Madam Hooch, distracted by the flying disaster that was Sally-Anne Perkins, hadn't seen either attempt.

Charms was unbelievably boring; Professor Flitwick's lessons couldn't compare to those Harry had had with Crabbe and Goyle. At the end of the class, they'd created simple good luck charms with rabbit feet. After their work was graded, Draco had shyly offered Harry his charm, and Harry – having concluded it was one of the things friends were supposed to do – gave his charm to Draco.

During lunch, Blaise had noted the Bloody Baron's absence, and when questioned, Harry shrugged and responded simply, "Maybe he lost interest."

The biggest disaster of the day though, came during Double Potions.

Rather than working in pairs, Professor Snape had ordered them to brew their potions separately. Their assignment was a very simple potion designed to eliminate mild acne, and after a moment's debate, Harry decided to watch Draco work.

By slowing down his pace to that of his blonde friend, the rest of the students wouldn't be suspicious. And by purposefully botching the potion in small ways, Snape would gain the impression that while Harry might know a bit about theory, he was hopeless in the actual practice.

Thanks to Avery, Harry was familiar with what would happen to various potions if too much or too little of an ingredient was added. He knew what would happen if the potion was stirred in the wrong direction, or if ingredients were added too slowly or too soon. There were all sorts of tiny ways to spoil a potion that _didn't_ result in the cauldron exploding.

A common mistake when brewing this particular potion was alternately stirring the potion. Because it required exactly ten minutes of non-stop stirring, Avery had told him that most students stirred clockwise, then switched to counter-clockwise, then back again.

To brew the potion successfully, it had to be stirred clockwise for the full ten minutes.

By not stirring the potion properly, it induced acne rather then eliminating it. However, since the change in color was evident – the simmering surface turning a pale green instead of a pale yellow – this particular mistake was easily identified.

As Harry stirred the potion, taking care to alternate the direction, he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of one eye. He turned his head just in time to spot a small lump of horned slug arching gracefully toward his cauldron.

The slug tumbled into his potion with a small plop, and his cauldron instantly exploded, spraying Draco and himself with a foul smelling, puce liquid.

From the other side of the room, Harry heard Ron snigger.

Professor Snape stormed out of his office, and when he saw Harry's cauldron, his face darkened. "Mr. Potter," he said in a silky tone as he advanced, "if I may ask, _where_ in the instructions does it say to add a horned slug?" He sneered, "Five points from-"

Abruptly, Snape paused. He recovered himself immediately and continued smoothly, "Detention with me, eight o'clock tonight. Go clean yourself up."

"Yes, sir," Harry responded softly. He stood and headed for the bathrooms. Draco glared at Ron for a moment before following.

"I can't believe Professor Snape gave you detention," Draco complained as he washed the goo from his hands and face. He glanced at Harry. "Aren't you going to clean up?"

Harry studied Draco intently. He flicked his wrist and his wand slipped from its holder into his hand. After a moment of consideration, he murmured a complex cleaning charm on both of them. The failed potion vanished from their robes, skin, and hair.

Draco blinked. "Y'know," he said, "I can't believe I didn't think of that."

The words sparked a thought in Harry. How could he have been so dense? He didn't need to go to the common bathroom to shower in the morning; he could just use a spell!

Draco continued, oblivious to Harry's internal epiphany, "The Weasel is seriously pissing me off, though. Just 'cause he's a Gryffindor, all the professors are going to think he's brave and noble, but he's just a snotty git." The blonde paused, then asked suddenly, "Hey, Harry, when's your birthday?"

The abruptness of the question caught Harry off-guard. "July thirty-first," he replied.

"Hm. Maybe I'll get the rest of the Slytherins together and plan a prank on him. Since I didn't get you anything for your birthday, it can be your belated gift." Images of Ron with pastel-pink hair and neon freckles danced merrily in Draco's blue eyes.

Harry found himself almost looking forward to it. An uncharacteristically bright smile tugged his lips, and he murmured, "Don't get caught."

Draco stared at him, eyes mockingly wide. "What do you take me for, a Gryffindor?"

Belatedly, the blonde added, "No offense."

Still smiling, Harry replied, "None taken."

They returned to class just as the rest of the students had finished bottling their potions. Professor Snape had taken the liberty of storing Draco's potion, but he informed Harry, quite maliciously, that if he wanted credit for the day's work, he'd have to complete the potion on his own time.

What Harry was coming to recognize as his Slytherin mindset read the statement's implications – he'd have to schedule time in the dungeons, secure the ingredients on his own, and deliver the potion to Snape personally. For a normal first year, it would take a week at best. The dungeons were probably already booked with sixth and seventh years completing independent studies.

Besides, to get the ingredients would require a trip to Diagon Alley; from what Harry had read in the Student Handbook, that meant a petition to both his Head of House and the Headmaster. The pass to Diagon Alley was pending approval, which took anywhere from three to five days, and required a chaperone to accompany him. Once he acquired the ingredients, he'd have to actually brew the potion.

Professor Snape was obviously trying to make it difficult for him.

What the older man couldn't possibly know was that Harry already had a lab of his own, courtesy of his shadows, and that all he needed to do was open the fifth lock of his trunk to access it. He knew his store of ingredients had everything that was needed to brew the simple potion.

As he silently listened to Professor Snape lecture, jotting the notes down neatly, Harry decided to wait a few days before turning in the potion. Though he could probably complete it in the half-hour before his detention, he decided such a display would be a bad idea.

Even if it would be satisfying to wipe the smirk off the older man's face.

o

After dinner that night, Harry found himself inside the Potions classroom. He quietly made his way to the door that lead to Professor Snape's office, raised his hand, and knocked softly.

"Enter," came the cool, controlled voice.

Harry pulled the door open and slipped inside. Snape was sitting at his desk, paperwork piled in neat, regimented stacks. The older man glanced up at Harry, then at the clock on the wall which was labeled "Detention." The hour hand pointed to, "Precisely on time."

The clock featured other labels as well, including, "Five minutes late, but late nonetheless," "Five minutes early. Don't you think I've got better things to do?" and "Late, late, late! Perhaps another detention is in order."

Snape quirked his brow and said, "Surprisingly punctual, Mr. Potter. I'm amazed."

Harry remained silent. He stood ramrod straight, with both hands at his sides, and he did not fidget. It was a position he'd often adopted with Uncle Vernon when the older man was yelling at him.

Seeing that Harry wasn't about to say anything, Snape continued, "School has been in session for less than a week. In that time, exactly fifty-three cauldrons have been ruined by various students' pathetic attempts to brew simple potions. You will do the cleaning by hand. You have two hours."

"Yes, sir," Harry replied. After a moment, he added, "Excuse me, sir?"

Professor Snape glanced up from his desk, plainly irritated. "What is it, Mr. Potter? I believe even you have the capacity to understand what I just said, though if you'd like, I can translate it for you – get to work."

"Yes, sir, but you didn't tell me where the cauldrons are," Harry said, fixing his gaze on the floor.

Had he been looking up, he would have seen a flash of surprise flicker across Snape's face. The professor obviously hadn't been expecting a legitimate question.

"Both the cauldrons and the cleaning supplies are in the closet next to my office. You may use one of the workstations to situate yourself."

Harry nodded and excused himself, taking care to quietly shut the door behind him.

Many of the cauldrons were in bad shape, with all sorts of residue crusted along their insides. Harry immediately went to work, pulling on a pair of worn Dragonhide gloves to protect his hands. The solvent and the coarse rags made cleaning the cauldrons fairly easy compared to the slop he usually cleaned off plates after dinner at the Dursleys'.

It took Harry a little more than an hour to complete the assignment, and when he'd finished storing the cauldrons and supplies neatly back inside the closet, he knocked on Professor Snape's door.

"Enter."

Harry opened the door, but did not cross the threshold. "I'm finished, sir," he said softly.

Snape's expression was a mix of disbelief and scorn. "I highly doubt it, Mr. Potter, unless you did an extremely poor job."

The older man stood, swept by him, and opened the closet. His dark eyes surveyed the tidy room, and he stared at the immaculately clean cauldrons.

"Sir?" Harry asked.

"Detention," Snape said, still staring at the cauldrons, "for using magic to aid you, despite my warning. Next Tuesday, eight o'clock."

Harry didn't protest. If the professor believed he'd used magic, there was nothing Harry could say to convince him otherwise. It didn't matter that a Prior Incantato on his wand would reveal otherwise; Snape would likely be angrier if Harry proved him wrong.

"Get out of here, Potter."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, and he quietly left.

o

Friday's classes went much the same as those on Thursday. There was a pop-quiz at the beginning of Herbology; of the twenty questions, Harry answered seven wrong. The lesson itself was rather boring, as they did nothing but noting lectures and bookwork.

Ron was insufferable, partly because whenever Harry looked at him, he couldn't suppress a small smile when he remembered what Draco was planning. Neville told Ron how they'd decided to split the research, and the redhead had reluctantly agreed to meet them in the Library on Wednesday night.

Harry had earned ten points for his houses during Magical Theory, and five more during Transfiguration. By that time, most of the class had successfully transfigured their matchsticks into needles, but Harry continued to purposefully botch his attempt to change his needle back into a match.

By the end of Friday night, the events of the week had caught up with him. The minute he laid down in bed, he found he could barely keep his eyes open.

Beyond exhaustion, he was also frustrated. Because everything had been so hectic, he hadn't had an opportunity to finish cataloging the books in his study. His class assignments, while nothing he couldn't handle, were shaping up to occupy a huge chunk of his time. He didn't have any time on the weekends to spare because he'd been informed during dinner that he had special Quidditch training until the actual practices started.

He'd been at Hogwarts for almost a week, and he _still_ hadn't gotten to the Library.

A sinking feeling slowly wormed into Harry's stomach.

What if he failed his shadows?

o

The next morning, Harry cast a cleaning spell on himself, pulled on his robes, and collected both of his brooms from the back of his armoire. It was early enough that most students were still in bed, and he only passed three or four on his way down to the practice pitch.

Professor McGonagall met him on the pitch. An older Gryffindor Harry hadn't met stood beside her.

"Good morning, Harry," Professor McGonagall said, smiling. She introduced the other boy with a wave of her hand and said, "This is Oliver Wood, captain for Gryffindor's team."

Oliver extended his hand, and Harry reluctantly took it. The older Gryffindor pumped his hand furiously up and down, grinning like a madman. "Pleasure to meet you, Harry. If you're half as good as the professor here says you are, we'll have the cup for sure."

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. "Oliver, due to circumstances beyond my control, Harry is Seeker for Slytherin, as well."

The grin faded from Oliver's face. "So, Slytherin and Gryffindor will be using a reserve Seeker for matches against each other, then?"

"That," McGonagall said, "is what we are here to determine." She glanced at Harry, "You know the rules for Quidditch, yes?"

Harry nodded slowly.

"Excellent. Professor Dumbledore suggested we do a trial run of you using your spell to fly. It's possible that you might have some difficulty, in which case we will need to call in the reserve Seekers for the matches where Gryffindor versus Slytherin."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry replied softly.

Oliver glanced between them, confusion on his face. "What spell?"

In response, Harry flicked his wand into his hand. He murmured, "_Alteralius_."

The intense feeling of being pulled apart lasted only a moment, and Harry heard Oliver gasp.

"Well then," Professor McGonagall said primly, "shall we begin?"

A thought suddenly occurred to Harry. Originally he'd thought the damage he'd done by casting Alteralius couldn't be repaired, but this practice run was the perfect opportunity to discredit himself.

The plan forming in his mind might just work.

As Harry's two bodies each mounted their own broom, he kicked off. The double vision was a bit bothersome, but he found it a pleasant challenge. As he soared, feeling the wind tugging his robes, his last tangible thought was that he hoped Dumbledore was watching.

o

Minerva McGonagall's eyes narrowed marginally as she watched Oliver test Harry. The boy was a brilliant Seeker, and she had no doubt that after he graduated Hogwarts, several of the professional teams would try to recruit him.

Oliver stood on the ground, pegging golf-sized balls all over the field. Harry alternately switched which body he used to catch them, and Minerva was amazed to see that he hadn't even missed one.

However, as she watched the boy play, she could clearly see that he wasn't fully prepared to use the Alteralius spell. While he might be able to cast it – perhaps a side effect of truly wanting to play Quidditch? she mused – his control over his bodies was shaky at best.

When one of his bodies swerved abruptly to the left, his other body moved to the left as well, even if the movement pulled him further away from what he was catching. The same went for diving – when one Potter dove, they both dove.

It seemed he could control both bodies fairly well, unless one of them had to move without premeditation. Sudden swerving or diving seemed too difficult for him to master.

Minerva sighed, shaking her head. She knew the spell had been too good to be true. After all, what eleven-year-old boy could have that sort of control? It was amazing enough that he'd even managed to cast the spell properly – though she supposed his abilities could also be attributed to the fact that he was "the" Harry Potter.

She noted to herself to inform Severus that whenever Slytherin and Gryffindor played against one another, they would need to employ their reserve Seekers. On a more positive note, the boy would only need one broom for his matches, which meant that no one's purse would suffer the added expense of a second Nimbus 2000.

As the practice ended, she made her way out onto the field to inform both boys of the news.

He was just a child after all, her mind whispered.

And with that thought, the tiny part of her that had been concerned about Harry's uncanny abilities quieted, fading to the back of her mind.

o

Not an hour later, Harry found himself back out on the Quidditch pitch. Severus Snape and the captain of the Slytherin team, Marcus Flint, stared at him with expressions he couldn't read. Professor McGonagall had already informed them that it would be better for their houses to employ a secondary seeker when playing each other.

"Mount up," Marcus said. "I want to see why the Gryffindors made you Seeker."

Harry did so. His practice with Oliver Wood couldn't even compare to the harsh training Marcus put him through. Where Oliver simply threw the small practice balls all over the field, Marcus used magic to levitate them in an approximation of the snitch.

At any given time, at least six balls were flying through the air, doing their damnedest to avoid Harry's outstretched hand. By the end of the session, Harry had to consciously will himself not to pant in exhaustion, and it was only through sheer force of will that he remained standing.

He'd caught all of the balls thrown – each and every last one.

When he dismounted his broom, he found that the cold, impersonal air about Marcus had vanished, leaving a grinning, giddy sixth year who talked about their upcoming matches with the same zeal as Oliver Wood.

Professor Snape's glare, on the other hand, had raised several notches. "I suppose," the Potions Master drawled, "that it runs in your blood."

Something in Snape's voice irked him, and Harry found himself responding before he could bite back the words. "It's possible, sir, but then, I wouldn't know."

Harry's jaw clenched and he waited for the older man to hit him. He couldn't believe he had lost control of himself like that. He could hear Uncle Vernon in his head growling – _"Disrespectful freak. I won't have any of your cheek in this house; I'll bloody well beat it out of you."_

Surprisingly, the blows didn't come, and Harry glanced up at Professor Snape.

"Ten poi... detention with me, Thursday, eight o'clock, Mr. Potter." Snape's sneer covered his initial slip.

It wasn't particularly fair, Harry mused as he made his way back to the Slytherin dorms. Apparently Professor Snape refused to take points from his own house, which meant that Harry would get a detention with the man no matter what his indiscretion was.

Still, it was an improvement over being beaten.

When Harry was safely inside his room, he opened the sixth lock of his trunk and descended into his study. The rest of the day was spent cataloging and organizing the rest of his books, with a small break in which he brewed and bottled the potion for Professor Snape.

Draco stopped by briefly, and handed Harry a small pile of books and another letter from Lucius. "The package showed up this morning," the blonde said with a smile.

Harry opened the book on the top of the pile and a tiny square of parchment slipped out.

Harry –

Hope you're enjoying yourself at Hogwarts. We found a few extra copies of these in our libraries and thought of you. Enjoy them, and we'll see you at Christmas break.

Crabbe & Goyle

Touched, Harry carted them down to his study and filed them away. At the bottom of the pile, he found the book about the ghosts of Hogwarts that Lucius had promised him.

Harry locked his trunk with care, then settled down onto his bed. Hedwig flew from her perch and situated herself at the head of his bed, and Samson curled around his wrist. He read aloud to them, soaking in their comments and questions, and by the time he fell asleep with the book resting on his chest, he was halfway through it.

Sunday entailed another rigorous workout – Marcus prepped him in the morning, and Wood instructed him in the afternoon. By the time he stumbled back to his bed, he really was so tired that he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

o

After classes finished on Monday, Harry decided it was time to fulfill his weekly promise to the Bloody Baron. With detention on Tuesday and Thursday, and his research meeting for Herbology on Wednesday, he decided it was better to make sure he took the time to seek out the Slytherin ghost on a day he was sure he had no other responsibilities.

Much as he would like to go to the Library, he didn't think the Bloody Baron would take well to broken promises.

He made his way through the dungeons, and when he reached the Baron's room, he knocked once, softly. As before, there was no answer. He opened the door and peeked inside. The Baron was sitting in his chair, staring up at the portrait.

"Boy," the Baron said softly. "Sit with me."

Harry slid into the empty chair.

"Your shadows," the ghost began, "have taught you well. They have given you many of the tools you will need to survive, and yet, I find there is one thing – one very important thing – in which they have failed you."

"Baron?" Harry let the question creep into his voice.

Instead of answering, the Baron asked, "What is it you wish to accomplish, boy? In your own words."

"I want to change the world into what my shadows believe it should be," Harry replied.

"And what changes would you wish?" The Baron tilted his head marginally. "What specifically would you change?"

The question was so like the debates he and his shadows had engaged in, Harry found himself leaning forward and answering passionately, "The current Ministry is full of corrupt officials, and the laws they enforce are prejudiced and self-serving." He nibbled his lip thoughtfully. "Like what they decree to be taught in wizarding schools. Muggle Studies, for example – I've read the texts, and they're completely misleading. They make Muggles out to be some sort of stupid animals. Muggles can't do magic, so they're inferior. Period.

"There aren't any books that show the advances that Muggles have made _without_ magic. Every time someone mentions something Muggles have created, like the telephone or an airplane, wizards titter about how barbarian they are, how mundane. Because of what's been taught to them, wizards have _no_ idea how dangerous Muggles can be. They dismiss them simply because they can't believe Muggles are a threat."

Harry paused, then asked suddenly, "Do you know what an atomic bomb is?"

The Bloody Baron shook his head.

"It's made with Muggle science. It's dropped somewhere and when it explodes, the fire and the backlash wipes out a huge area in _seconds_. Only it doesn't stop there, because what the Muggles use to make it is like a slow acting poison. Whoever survives the blast is affected by it, and it spreads to people miles away. It takes years to kill, and causes all kinds of illnesses. And if someone who was in the explosion has children, it spreads to the children like a virus, and sometimes the babies are born deformed, and sometimes there's no outward sign at all, but years later, they die and no one understands _why_."

The ghost's eyes widened slightly, and Harry concluded angrily, "So how can someone who creates something like that _not_ be considered dangerous. How can the Ministry promote the idea that Muggles are stupid when they can be just as deadly as Voldemort himself."

"You have a very valid point," the Baron said softly. "But what would you do to change that?"

"Have people who understand write _new_ books about Muggles," Harry replied easily. "Instead of talking about them like they're animals, talk about them like they're another culture, every bit as valid as our own. Don't focus on the fact that they can't perform magic – focus on what they've done without it."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "But _don't_ let wizards walk around completely ignorant of what Muggles are capable of. If the Ministry is so concerned about keeping the wizarding world a secret from Muggles, make sure wizards know how to _act_ around Muggles. Not just 'don't be seen,' but a backup for 'if you are seen.'"

"What else?" the Baron urged gently.

Harry held up his index finger. "The Ministry's classifications for Dark Magic. There are all sorts of spells – useful spells – that they forbid people to learn because someone misused them _once_. There are other spells that aren't forbidden which are far more dangerous. There are combinations of spells that mirror what the Unforgivables do, and there are lesser degrees that aren't dealt with as harshly during trials despite the fact that the effects were the same as if someone _had_ used an Unforgivable."

He raised a second finger. "The use of Veritaserum during trials. Why is it that some people are granted the right, while others are denied? They have the means to insure that the right people are being sent to prison for the crimes that are committed, but they don't _use_ it. Considering what an awful place Azkaban is, shouldn't the people sent there actually _deserve_ it?"

A third finger joined the other two. "The department that deals with the disposal of dangerous magical creatures. Most of the creatures they destroy are perfectly harmless - _if_ you know how to deal with them. What gives them the right to destroy living things just because they're too ignorant to know how to treat them?"

With a sigh, Harry slumped back into the chair, letting his hand fall to his side. "There are hundreds of rules and departments that don't serve any purpose other than securing votes for the next election or lining the pockets of Ministry officials. There are all kinds of loopholes and inconsistencies. It's a mockery of what a government should stand for."

The Baron nodded. "Your understanding is a credit to your shadows. Now, how can you change anything if you do not know the rules by which your enemies play?"

Harry blinked.

A rare smile graced the ghost's face, pulling gaunt lips into an expression that would have ruined his reputation. The Baron continued, "Politics, boy. My only fault with your shadows is that they failed to teach you politics."

At Harry's stunned expression, the ghost said, "My title, boy, is truth. While I lived, I was a Baron, and as a Baron, I earned the right of Master in the game of politics. I will teach you."

Still stunned, Harry couldn't find any words to describe his gratitude. He settled on, "Thank you."

If the tiny twist of the Baron's lips was any indication, it was enough.

o

The next day, Harry was surprised when Hermione Granger walked over to him before breakfast. She stood proudly by the Slytherin table, ignoring the whispers from Gryffindor, and smiled at him. "Have you managed to reverse your needle yet?"

"No," Harry lied. "Have you?"

She shook her head.

Harry carefully offered, "Would you like to work on it with me during the weekend?"

Her smile was brilliant. "Yes, thank you."

As she walked away, Draco made a face and poked Harry in the side. "I asked my father about her, you know. She's a Mudblood."

"So?" Harry replied. He took a piece of toast from his plate and spread a bit of strawberry jam on it. He remembered the conversation on the train and wondered if any of it had stuck with the blonde.

Draco rolled his eyes as if the answer was obvious. "So you shouldn't get too close to her."

Harry took a small bite of toast. "Why?"

"Because she's a Mudblood!" Draco said in exasperation.

"You said that already," Harry replied. "Why does it matter?"

"Her parents were _Muggles_!"

"At least she has parents," Harry said with a shrug. He turned his attention back to the rest of the table and completely missed the stricken expression on Draco's face. The blonde excused himself a moment later, leaving his housemates to stare at his untouched plate.

The rest of the day was a blur. All Harry knew was that Draco didn't sit by him in Charms and wasn't at lunch. By the time Potions came around, Harry wasn't surprised to see that while Draco had to sit next to him, the blonde didn't glance in his direction even once.

What did surprise Harry was the strange, tight feeling in his chest. He touched his fingers to his breast, right over his heart, and rubbed, but the feeling didn't go away.

Before his detention that night, Harry made a quick detour to his room and picked up the potion he'd brewed on Saturday. He slipped the bottle into his pocket and made his way to the Potions classroom. Once there, he knocked on Professor Snape's door.

"Enter."

For a moment, Harry wondered if Professor Snape was even aware that every time he invited someone into his office, he used the same word and the same tone of voice. He decided that it was probably intentional; Snape was a Slytherin, after all.

Harry opened the door and stepped inside. The clock on the wall read, "Precisely on time."

Professor Snape glanced at the clock, then back to Harry. "The idiot students here seem to believe that the workstations in my classrooms clean themselves," he said in a bored voice. "This, however, is not the case. The cleaning supplies are in the closet. You have two hours."

"Excuse me, sir," Harry said softly.

The Potions Master's mouth curled unpleasantly. "Mr. Potter, don't tell me you can't find the desks."

"No, sir," Harry replied. He pulled his potions assignment from his pocket, then stepped forward and hesitantly placed it on the desk. "I've finished my assignment, sir. I wanted to give it to you before I forgot."

Snape started slightly. He gave Harry a measuring look and replied. "Is that all?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then leave. I've work to do."

Harry exited quietly, carefully shutting the door behind him, and pulled the cleaning supplies from the closet. Rather than repeat last week's mistake and earn another detention, he took his time, and made sure to use the full two hours as he cleaned the desks.

Professor Snape swept out of his office at the end of Harry's detention, and watched with narrowed eyes as Harry finished storing the cleaning supplies.

"Finished, Potter?" Snape asked, scanning the stone desks for any stain that Harry might have missed. There weren't any.

"Yes, sir," Harry replied.

"Dismissed."

Harry returned to the Slytherin dorms. When he arrived outside of his room, he found Draco was waiting for him.

The blonde boy was sitting on the carpet, leaning back against Harry's door. He scrambled to his feet when he saw Harry approaching.

"Draco," Harry greeted softly.

"Harry," Draco replied. His cheeks were red and his hands were balled tightly at his sides. "Can I, um, talk to you for a minute?"

Harry nodded. He opened the door to his room and inclined his head in invitation.

As they made their way into the room, Harry noted that his heart was pounding, and that the tight feeling in his chest seemed to intensify. He wondered if he needed to see Madam Pomfrey.

"I, ah..." Draco bit his lip and looked away. "I'm sorry. About what I said this morning."

Harry blinked. "Why?"

The blonde turned and glared at him. "Because it hurt you. Because it was wrong, and stupid, and it took me all day to get up the nerve to say it, but I'm sorry, okay?"

Harry played their morning conversation over in his head, wondering what Draco was apologizing for. Nothing the other Slytherin said had bothered him. He wondered if he should tell Draco that.

Draco continued, oblivious to Harry's thoughts, "I don't care that Granger's a Mudblood, and I don't care if father will be mad at me for associating with her, because if you want to study with her, then I'm going with you because... because you're my friend."

At this, Draco seemed a little uncertain. He stared at the floor and said, "You're still my friend... right?"

After a moment of consideration where Harry tried to figure out what the right response was, he hesitantly extended his hand. Draco took it, and Harry was surprised to find that he didn't want to flinch away. "Of course we're friends, Dray."

Draco smiled shyly. "Thanks, Harry." He grinned impishly and raised Harry's hand to press a kiss against his knuckles, the way people did in Victorian movies.

As Draco did so, Harry's sleeve fell back a little, baring his arm – his scars. Harry quickly pulled his hand away and tugged the sleeve back down.

"Just kidding, Harry," Draco said softly, but the expression on his face seemed a little tight. He didn't seem to have noticed the scars, for which Harry was extremely grateful.

"Do you want to stay for a while?" Harry asked. "Samson said he liked talking to you."

"Sure!" Draco replied, and his expression lightened considerably.

They settled down onto Harry's bed, and as they chatted with the tiny snake, Harry found that the strange, tight feeling in his chest had all but disappeared.

o


	8. Book 1, Chapter 07: Reflection

Title: In Memory I

Author: Becka

Chapter 7: Reflection

o

Draco Malfoy came from a prestigious family. He could trace his ancestry back to a time only remembered in fairytales, back to when knights really did slay dragons, and wizards were not only known to the Muggle world, but feared and revered by them as well.

His family had been around for a very long time, and in that time, had developed extensive codes of conduct, rules and etiquette, that befitted the name "Malfoy."

Raised by an aristocrat, by a Malfoy, Draco had been given lessons in formality and protocol since he could remember. Lessons on how to dine at family gatherings, the proper way to sit, which fork to use and how to hold it.

He'd done the standard book-balancing on his head – cliché, yes, but it was vital to maintain one's balance at all times, shoulders back, spine straight, head tilted ever so slightly up as to always give the impression of superiority. There had been lessons in speech – his least favorite had been reading aloud from the dictionary, expanding his vocabulary and refining his pronunciations in the same breath – and the subtle art of manipulation, using tone of voice and body language, had been a painstakingly instilled in him.

Draco had been schooled in many things. The courses and lessons he'd attended had varied, and sometimes he understood why they were so important, and sometimes he didn't. He'd learned though, because it made his father proud.

It wasn't that he hadn't had a normal childhood. For being heir to one of the most prestigious pureblood families in the wizarding world, Draco's life had been shockingly normal. Aside from his lessons, his days were his own.

He was allowed to ride any of the horses in his fathers stables, and he and his two best friends, Vincent and Gregory, could often be seen racing in the lovely expanse of meadow that was his backyard. The three boys were excellent riders, but on the few occasions they did take a tumble off their steeds, the house elves were always quick to cast safety-net spells.

Malfoy Manor was a beautiful mansion, filled with so many rooms and hallways that Draco never grew tired of exploring. With Greg and Vince by his side, he raided the kitchens, discovered secret passages, and stargazed in the towers. His childhood had been filled with stolen bottles of butterbeer, picnics in the woods, games of Exploding Snap, Wizard's Chess, and Jinx.

Draco couldn't ever remember a time where he wasn't happy. How could he not be? He'd had his father's love, two best friends, and a word of magic to explore.

He led a dual life, though. Just as his lessons and pastimes were very so different, so were the faces he displayed in public and in private. To the wizarding world, he was a Malfoy: sneering, haughty, and arrogant. But to his father and his companions, he was just Draco, just Dray, just a loving son and a loyal friend.

Both attitudes were part of him, but he'd never had trouble keeping them separate. He'd never not known how to act – to the world he was Malfoy; to those he loved, he was Draco. It was that simple.

Harry Potter changed all of that.

School had been in session for nearly a month, and every day Draco found himself slipping. He'd say something as a Malfoy – a casual comment about Muggle-borns, or a thoughtless remark about one of the other houses – only to look over and see Harry's eyes watching him.

There was never any reproach in Harry's expression, never any hint that the words bothered him, but somehow Draco would find his stomach in knots. Harry's mother came from a family of Muggles. Harry could be seen walking in the halls with that Hufflepuff, Longbottom, or that Ravenclaw, Granger, or that Gryffindor, Thomas.

And the fact that Harry never seemed to get bent out of shape over _any_ of it made Draco feel that much worse.

He'd look into Harry's eyes and think, "He really doesn't care."

He'd look into those bright, green eyes and think, "That's not the Harry that sits next to me on that ridiculous red and green bed and translates everything Samson says, even the unimportant bits, just so I won't feel left out."

He'd look and stare as deeply as he could and think, "Do I know you?"

There were certain rules that a Malfoy was expected to adhere to. In public, for example, he had to make subtle, cutting remarks about those who were inferior to him, namely Muggles and all houses not Slytherin. It was just the way things were done! But how could he make those remarks without slurring Harry?

That tied into another Malfoy belief – if someone was worthy of being friends with, it was a total breach of protocol to insult them in any way.

A Malfoy wasn't supposed to feel ashamed, wasn't supposed to want to apologize.

But in nearly every conversation Draco had, he found himself wanting to do both. It didn't even matter if Harry was there, because all he had to do was picture those vivid green eyes, and something in him would instantly rebel.

More often than not, the words, "What would Harry think?" ran through his mind.

And so, bit by bit, he found himself reining in the comments and toning down the jibes.

With only a month in Harry's company, Draco found himself changing.

The observer, the Slytherin in him, marveled. Not just at his own change, but at the subtle changes of the other students of the school. Harry, despite his dual sorting, could be found walking with members of every house. That, in its own right, was a phenomenal accomplishment. House prejudice had been a part of Hogwarts dating back to when it was founded - the infamous rivalries of Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff.

It made sense that the rivalries were still around, because the key characteristic of each founder was the stone upon which every house was built. How could someone who valued bravery, who rushed into a situation and acted on instinct alone, possibly understand someone who valued cunning and preferred to play it smart and wait for the best opportunity to present itself? How could someone who valued intelligence, who surrounded themselves with books and reveled in silence, get along with someone who defined themselves by group loyalty and loved spending their time surrounded by friends?

Yet in a month, Harry had befriended Longbottom and Granger and Thomas. There were others of course – Pansy Parkinson was practically an extension of Granger, and a few other Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs could be seen in Harry's company as well.

Greg and Vince didn't count – they were Slytherin at heart.

Despite the fact that Harry was technically half-Gryffindor, with the exception of Dean Thomas, the Gryffindors displayed open hostility towards the Boy-Who-Lived. But their Head of House, Professor McGonagall, seemed to favor Harry, both because of his gift in Transfiguration and his skill in Quidditch.

The rest of the teachers were mostly in awe of Harry, save Professor Snape. As a whole, the Slytherins accepted Harry unconditionally, but Snape seemed to have a personal vendetta against the Boy-Who-Lived that was unparalleled. He never took off points, but he would use any excuse to give Harry detention. It seemed to be a bi-weekly ritual – every Tuesday and Thursday night, Harry could be found scrubbing cauldrons, cleaning workstations, or preparing some of the more unsavory ingredients used in potions.

Not that Harry ever complained.

Harry didn't complain when Snape gave him detention no matter how little he'd done to earn it. He didn't complain when the Gryffindorks insulted him in the halls. He didn't complain or roll his eyes or say anything in his own defense – he just accepted it complacently, with a silent nod or casual shrug.

Draco had thought that the boy who had so often featured in his nightly stories would be outspoken, full of life and laughter. He had envisioned emerald eyes that twinkled and a smile that could outshine the sun. He'd pictured them darkening at insults and flashing with anger as he gave as good as he got.

He had not expected a Harry who was strangely subdued – a quiet, unobtrusive observer with calm eyes that missed nothing. When Harry spoke, his voice was soft, and he rarely laughed. And yet, there was still something about him that was strangely charismatic. Something that instilled both respect and trust.

No matter how much Draco trusted Harry, there was something that had bugged him ever since that night in Harry's room – the first of several occasions when Draco had swallowed his Malfoy pride and apologized. When he'd playfully kissed Harry's hand, just before Harry had pulled away, Draco had seen a curious set of scars.

He'd been too flustered at the time to really think about it, but looking back, he could clearly picture the crosshatch of thin, white marks. Looking back, he wondered what sort of injury would leave such marks.

There were other things that stuck out as well. Harry was always awake and changed before the rest of the Slytherins. Harry didn't touch anyone, and on the few occasions that someone's hand brushed by his, or someone patted him on the back, he flinched away. Harry was unflappably calm, but it was an unnatural sort of calm; nothing _ever_ bent him out of shape.

Harry smiled sometimes, but usually it was only when they were alone in Harry's room, lying on the bed as they talked with Samson.

And sometimes, just sometimes, Draco would catch a peek at Harry's arms. There _were_ scars on them, thin, white ones, and thick, rigid ones. Scars that Draco, for all his theorizing, couldn't come up with any plausibly explanation for.

o

Harry Potter was an enigma.

Harry Potter, son of James Potter – the most arrogant bastard to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts. A virtual carbon copy of James, with his mussy black hair and his pronounced cheekbones. A menace in potions, certainly, and while the boy was fairly adept in his theories, his practice rivaled that of the Hufflepuff, Longbottom. To date, Longbottom had melted thirteen cauldrons, whereas Potter had only destroyed seven.

Harry Potter, son of Lily Evans – the only Gryffindor who ever gave Severus the time of day. Perhaps not so different from Lily, either, with identical emerald eyes that Severus had never found a hue to match. In every detention, set to scrubbing cauldrons, cleaning desks, preparing raw potion ingredients, Potter had demonstrated her quiet grace and calm acceptance.

Severus loathed Potter, wished nothing more than to successfully dismiss the boy from his mind, and yet, every one of his Slytherin instincts was sounding the alarm.

Why was it, for example, that Potter usually only made small mistakes with his potions, mistakes common to any learning student during most classes, and yet, every time Severus stepped out of the room, Potter's cauldron erupted or melted?

Either the boy was intentionally making the gross errors, or someone else was making them for him.

When someone had fouled James Potter's potions so many years ago, in jest or in prank, the irritating Gryffindor had been quite vocal about it, ensuring that everyone knew he was not the one at fault.

But every time Severus gave Potter detention, the boy simply said, "Yes, sir," and quietly set about cleaning whatever mess had been made. Accepted the punishment without protest, as if he deserved it.

Severus hated things that didn't add up.

Another matter of concern was the boy's detentions. He always arrived precisely on time, never early, never late.

It irritated Severus. James Potter had never been one for punctuality.

And no matter what task Severus set to the boy, no matter how disgusting or demeaning, Potter complied without complaint. He performed his detentions efficiently, never shuffling his feet or muttering about the unfairness of it as most students did.

Severus hated that he couldn't find fault with any of the work.

And of course, always at the back of his mind, was the potion that the Potter-brat had delivered during his second detention. Severus _knew_ the boy hadn't gone to Diagon Alley for the supplies, though he supposed it was possible one of the upperclassmen might have generously provided the necessary ingredients. Still, the boy hadn't booked time in the dungeons to _brew_ the potion.

Students who booked extra time to complete assignments were carefully monitored; every student signed an enchanted book on the way in that recorded what potion they brewed. It was impossible that someone else had done Potter's assignment, simply because no one had made any cures for acne.

So how had he completed the assignment on time? Unless Potter had a comprehensive lab squirreled away in his trunk, it was simply impossible.

Any of the incidents alone might not have aroused his suspicion, but there was definitely something about Potter that merited observation.

And so, Severus observed.

At mealtimes, he covertly studied the boy. Despite his dual sorting, he always sat with the Slytherins, usually sandwiched between Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini. Occasionally the Potions Master reveled in this; James Potter was probably spinning in his grave.

It did seem odd to him that his house accepted Potter so readily. With their parents – most of whom had been Death Eaters – filling their heads with stories of the damned Boy-Who-Vanquished-The-Dark-Lord, Severus had fully expected Potter to turn to the Gryffindors after the first night.

That Potter seemed to be closest to, of all students, Draco Malfoy, was lunacy.

Cursing his Wizard's Debt, Severus made a note to speak to the Headmaster. Lucius would undoubtedly pounce on the situation. The eldest Malfoy would attempt to use his son's closeness to the Boy-Who-Lived to draw him in and destroy him.

Either that, or turn him into the next Dark Lord.

Severus bit back an amused snort at the ridiculousness of _that_ particular notion; Lucius had been one of Lord Voldemort's most loyal servants.

Severus' thoughts instantly turned to Quirrell. Having been a spy for most of his life, he'd had no difficulty spotting Quirrell's scheming. He'd seen the man quizzing several teachers on information about the Sorcerer's Stone. Such queries, however innocently stuttered, made it clear that the other professor was planning on stealing it somehow.

The question Severus couldn't answer was 'why'.

He _knew_ the Dark Lord was somehow involved. Though it seemed impossible, the Dark Mark on his arm begged to differ. Ever since Quirrell had shown up, the dull ache beneath his skin had doubled to noticeable discomfort.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if Lucius and the other Death Eaters were similarly affected. If so, he'd have to double his watch on the Potter-brat. If the Dark Lord did return, nothing would gain them higher favor than delivering the boy into Voldemort's hands.

With a scowl that sent the students in front of him scattering, Severus silently cursed James Potter and his bloody Wizard's Debt.

o

Hermione Granger was a brilliant witch.

Despite the fact that she was Muggleborn, and despite the fact that she had never even heard of magic before her letter from Hogwarts, she still managed to rank in the top percent of her class. Part of it stemmed from her natural ability, she supposed, but most of it came from her burning desire to succeed.

Even from the time that she was a little girl, she'd always been ostracized for that. The boys and girls in her class had picked on her, never letting her sit with them, and calling her names when she was in hearing distance. It didn't matter that she got A's on all of her tests and most of them struggled to maintain low B's and C's. If anything, that only made them angrier.

Hermione had never really been popular. She wasn't pretty, and her hair refused to lie flat like the other girls. She didn't bother with ribbons or jewelry because she'd never felt it mattered. Her mother had always told her not to wears bows and bangles if she didn't _want_ to wear them. Even if these children couldn't accept her for who she was, there would be others. And, her father always added, when she finally did meet those children, they would become the sort of friends to keep for life.

It wasn't until she arrived at Hogwarts that she truly understood what he'd meant.

When she'd been sorted into Ravenclaw, she'd been incredibly pleased to find herself in a house renowned for being studious. When she'd taken her seat during the feast that day, a pretty girl whose hair was tied back with ribbons offered her a shy smile. And that night, she found that she and the girl – Pansy Parkinson – shared more than just a room. They shared the same burning thirst for success.

Needless to say, they'd hit it off spectacularly.

No one in Ravenclaw ever teased her because of her hair. No one cupped their hands over their mouths as they whispered about what a loser she was, to study all the time. No one made fun of her for spending her nights in the common room with Pansy as they poured over their latest class assignment.

The older students praised her, patting her on the shoulder with fond smiled when she earned them house points. The younger students competed with her, vying for the position as top of the class. And if she won that prestige for the week, they weren't angry. They simply tried harder, pushing themselves to do better after they congratulated her on her victory.

Pansy wasn't at all jealous that Hermione got better marks in her subjects. Instead, she told Hermione how she was proud to have such a marvelous friend, and she had no qualms asking Hermione to explain something when she didn't understand.

In the same regard, Hermione found that she wasn't really jealous that Pansy was pretty, and on the nights that they weren't studying, Pansy would brush Hermione's hair for hours, giggling as she added ribbons and shiny, little clips. She'd pull flashy dress robes out of her trunk and doll Hermione up in them, and then they'd parade in front of the mirror, preening as it complimented them.

Everything about the wizarding world seemed so spectacular, but there was one thing that bothered Hermione. Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff were all very nice to one another, but the moment a Slytherin stepped into the room the atmosphere would change. The Ravenclaws would bury their noses into their books, and the Hufflepuffs would look away. The Gryffindors would cup their hands over their mouths and mutter about "the slimy Slytherin git," and sometimes they would try to bully them, fighting over trivial things.

It wasn't as though the Slytherins didn't fight back, and sometimes they would attack with the Gryffindors first, but Hermione could understand that. After all, she'd been bullied in school before, and she understood the need to lash out at her aggressors before they lashed at her.

There was one boy, though, who did not fight back. In fact, he seemed to make an effort to associate with members of _all_ the houses, despite his seemingly shy nature. He was an excellent student, and though he was quiet, he carried a presence that Hermione couldn't understand; she'd spent hours analyzing it to no avail.

Despite his Slytherin connection, the older members of her house did not ostracize her for talking to him. In fact, one or two had encouraged the polite friendship. And oddly enough, it was only the Gryffindors who occasionally snipped at her, despite their own connection to him.

Hermione nibbled the tip of her quill thoughtfully, and glanced at Pansy who was currently curled up in a chair, reading her Astronomy textbook. Hermione looked down at her own textbook, then at her notes. She read over what she'd been writing, pausing only to cross out Harry Potter's name, which she'd absently scrawled on the corner of the page.

o

Fred Weasley stared at Harry Potter with a curious look on his face. Across the room, George Weasley did the same. When Harry glanced up, they averted their gazes, but after a moment they looked towards each other.

A curious smile stole across Fred Weasley's face. Across the room, George Weasley's mouth curled, just the same.

o

It was one thing, Dean Thomas mused, to talk about high-minded ideals like bravery and understanding. Standing up for those ideals, though, was apparently a completely separate issue.

The dark-skinned boy sighed, snuggling into one of the plush chairs of the common room as he absently flipped through the pages of his Transfiguration book. Many of his fellow Gryffindors were scattered around the room. Jennifer and Sally-Anne sat side by side near the fire, frowning in concentration as they muddled through one of Professor Sprout's assignments. Ron and Seamus were on their third game of Wizard's Chess, and Lavender and Parvati were giggling, heads bowed together as they talked. Probably about "girl stuff" as his mother would say – whatever that meant.

In fact, every first year Gryffindor could be accounted for, save one.

Until Dean got his Hogwarts letter, he'd had no idea such a fantastic place as the wizarding world existed. Things like magic wands and spells and potions were the stuff of fairytales, and no matter how pleasant, he'd long since outgrown the days when his parents would sit by his bedside and read the adventures of King Arthur and Sir Lancelot and Merlin.

But after he'd traveled on the Hogwarts Express, followed the other students through the woods and down the dark, winding path, come to the clearing with the lake and looked up –

– there it was.

Hogwarts.

At the time, Dean didn't think he'd ever seen anything more beautiful and magical in his entire life. And when he'd actually gotten a look inside of the glorious castle, with its merrily twinkling torches and its welcoming fires, with portraits that moved and talked like real people, and one thousand other little things that he'd never believed were possible, well, to say he'd felt overwhelmed was an understatement.

And best of all, not _one_ person had commented on his dark skin.

At Dean's old school, there was always a student or two who'd been raised to hate anyone with dark skin, or an older teacher who'd grown up in an age where it was acceptable to treat someone of African descent like they weren't human. Things were changing, of course, but no matter how Dean looked at it, the future seemed so far away.

Here, though, none of that mattered. It was like his housemates and his teachers had never given a thought to such a difference, and he was treated exactly the same as everyone else. There were other students with dark skin too, all of them from old, wizarding families. None of them seemed the least bit surprised that they were treated like equals.

To him, the lack of prejudice was more magical than any wand waving or potion making could ever be.

It had taken him a few days to catch on, but he'd soon come to realize that just because people weren't giving him a wide berth because of his skin didn't mean that prejudice didn't exist. It had simply found a different target.

His housemates dislike of the Slytherins, to some small extent, he could understand. School rivalries were bound to happen anywhere, and it wasn't as though it was one-sided. Even the teachers seemed to play favorites – Professor Snape _never_ took house points off his own house, and while Professor McGonagall was mostly fair, she rarely awarded Slytherin any points.

The exception to every rule, though, was Harry Potter.

When Ron tried to convince all of the first years that Harry had been wrongly placed in Gryffindor, Dean hadn't paid much attention. After all, just because it was rare for someone to be equally brave and cunning didn't mean that it _couldn't_ happen. But because one of the redhead's older brothers, Percy, seemed to share his views about the "slimy Slytherin git," many of the Gryffindors had followed in suit.

There were a few who didn't seem entirely comfortable with the idea of ostracizing one of their own, himself included, but they went along with the rest of their house because they didn't want to be shunned themselves.

Dean had been tempted, very briefly, to just ignore Harry like everyone else – not to say that he'd insult him like Ron – but he'd remembered his old school. He _knew_ how it felt to have people hate him for something he had no control over, and he just couldn't do that to someone else.

So he walked with Harry in the halls when he could, and paired with him in class assignments, and did his best to try and convince some of the other Gryffindors that just because Harry was part Slytherin didn't make him the monster that Ron said he was.

Dean didn't understand how anyone could call Harry a monster. It wasn't like he was intimidating – he was a good six inches shorter than most of the first years, and he was soft-spoken and unbelievably polite. Yeah, he was a little on the strange side, but Dean chalked that up to not really knowing where he stood. Being sorted into two houses probably made it a little difficult to settle in.

With a sigh, Dean glanced around the common room again.

Harry never, ever spent time in the Gryffindor common room. The one time he'd tried, Ron had spent the entire time insulting him. When the angry redhead had brought up Harry's parents and how they'd be ashamed than their son had ended up as a back-stabbing Slytherin, Harry had stood, politely excused himself, and retreated to the safety of his room.

Dean offered a silent prayer; hopefully the slimy Slytherins treated Harry better than the supposed golden Gryffindors.

o

Slytherin and Gryffindor. An unlikely combination, especially considering who young Harry Potter was. There was something about him, something he couldn't quite grasp. Curious indeed.

So many questions – the dual sorting, the Alteralius spell, reports from both Severus and Minerva. And the interactions with the other houses – Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw. The child's own houses – Slytherin, Gryffindor.

Raised by Muggles, and yet, so easily able to immerse himself into Hogwarts. And Hogwarts! The glorious castle had taken an instant shine to the boy, hadn't it? Quite curious, that Hogwarts would go out of her way to maneuver her staircases and connect her hallways to get to boy to class quickly when he was late.

Young Harry hadn't noticed yet, or had he? One could never be sure.

Lily Evans' eyes, so bright on that childish face. Eyes the color of the Killing Curse. The child was fated, always had been, hadn't he?

Perhaps if he'd taken the time to visit him – had intended to, hadn't he? But there was always more work to be done, more plans to put into action, more subtle poking and prodding of the fools at the Ministry – no time, no time to spare.

Still, the wards were in place, no harm could have come to the child? Trusting this, too trusting perhaps, and Harry himself – such a strange boy. Not at all as expected, where was his awe, his smile, his laughter? Could it have been that the Dursleys didn't treat him well? If that was the case – abuse? Surely not! – wouldn't the child be grateful? And yet.

As always, and yet.

Had to watch him, closely, more closely, but no time to do so. And young Malfoy, quite curious, perhaps the boy might be saved? The father far too set in his ways, but there's hope for the child. Slytherins as a whole, why was it they respected him so? Respect, or perhaps something more?

More plans in action, and Quirrell, curiously enough. Bad spot of decision there, but necessary, young Harry must know the dangers, what better way to introduce him? Still, no harm can come to him, not yet, not now. People need an icon, need Harry Potter, need the Boy-Who-Lived, don't they?

And yet.

Albus Dumbledore nibbled the tip of his beard thoughtfully.

And yet.

o


	9. Book 1, Chapter 08: Changing Seasons

Title: In Memory I

Author: Becka

Chapter 8: Changing Seasons

o

Halloween was a huge affair at Hogwarts – Professor Sprout had used the lesson to teach each of them how to bake pumpkin pie and prepare apples for making cider. The class had ended early, too. Magical Theory was a history lesson on the origins of All Hallows Eve, and Professor Binns had instructed the house elves to distribute bat-shaped sugar cookies at the beginning of class. Even Professor McGonagall had joined in the festivities, in her own way. The assignment for that week was to transfigure a cone of parchment into a witch's hat.

Throughout the entire day, everyone had been talking about the feast. The Great Hall was supposedly going to be decked out in its finest decorations, courtesy of Hogwarts itself. Rumor had it that Fred and George Weasley had been trying to stealthily sneak some of their joke-candies into the candy bowls in the kitchen.

For the wizarding world, Halloween was like Christmas come two months early. The same laughter, the same joy, like the flip side of a coin.

Harry had come to the conclusion that there was no force on earth that could convince him to go to dinner.

He didn't _want_ to be surrounded by students who would make a show of liking _everyone_ simply because they were "in the spirit" of the holiday. What was the point of enjoying the night when everything would go back to usual the next day?

It was for this reason that Harry had excused himself from Draco's company, feigning a stomachache. He'd told his blonde friend that he would be in the Slytherin dorms, resting, and politely declined Draco's offer to keep him company.

Just because Harry had no interest in participating in such a two-faced holiday didn't mean he would begrudge Draco the pleasure.

Now, Harry wandered through the corridors aimlessly, the Bloody Baron floating beside him. The silent companionship was a welcome respite from Hogwarts' usually bustling halls, and since he was the only one in the hallways, there was no need to hide their association.

Just as he was about to round a corner, he heard a faint series of grunts and snarls. He glanced at the Baron and mouthed quietly, "What's that?"

The Baron cocked his head to the side, gaunt face blank. He motioned for Harry to stay where he was, and disappeared through the wall in a swirl of stained, silvery robes. After a few moments, he returned. His ghostly face was an even paler shade than usual.

His voice was barely audible. "The Defense teacher, Quirrell. He is talking with a troll."

Only Harry's blink betrayed his surprise. Even as he gestured for the Baron to lead him, his mind raced over the implications of the statement. Somehow Professor Quirrell could talk to trolls, and had gotten one into Hogwarts. But why?

The grunts and snarls grew progressively louder, and the Baron paused suddenly. The ghost made a gesture, indicating that Quirrell and the troll were just around the corner, and Harry nodded. Pressing closely against the wall, he cautiously peeked around the corridor.

Harry had read about trolls before, but the pictures in his books couldn't prepare him for how truly disgusting they really were. Nearly twelve feet tall, the creature towered over Quirrell, lumpy and slobbering. The stench was incredible.

Harry wrinkled his nose up a little, and quietly breathed a freshener, tying the spell to only work on the air nearest his nose.

Quirrell made a sweeping gesture with his arm, and pointed toward a deeper section of the dungeons. The troll grunted and lumbered off, the club it held dragging against the stone floor with each lurching step. Quirrell smiled unpleasantly, narrowed eyes studying the creature as if to make sure his orders were being carried out. After a moment, the older man turned and strode confidently in the opposite direction.

Harry was torn. Should he follow Quirrell or the troll? If only there was a way to...

Resisting the urge to slam his head against the wall, he muttered, "_Alteralius_." The feeling of being ripped in half passed quickly, and if anyone had been looking, they might have seen Harry Potter slip silently after the troll. A moment later, Harry Potter stepped around the corner, footsteps mirroring those of Professor Quirrell.

o

As Harry melted into the shadows, a curious warmth spread through his body. He was comfortable like this, in the darkness - away from the whispers of children and the heavy gazes of teachers who couldn't possibly understand. In the shadows of the hallway –

/ dungeon /

– he could let his mind wander back to his garden, to Lucius' cool blue eyes and the benign smile on Peter's homely face. He could indulge in the childish fantasy, his own small world that existed only within the confines of the white picket fence – a world of soft, cool grass and rich, warm earth, of planting with grubby, callused hands, and green and brown stains on the knees of his slacks.

Quirrell –

/ the troll /

– ducked suddenly, heavy footfalls coming to a sudden halt in front of a doorway. The man –

/ beast /

– paused, reaching forward to violently open the door to the Great Hall –

/ girl's bathroom./

"There's a troll in the dungeons!" Quirrell cried before slumping to the floor in a dead faint.

/ The beast let out an angry groan, lifting its club to beat against the floor. /

As the hall erupted into a panic, Harry pressed himself against the wall, murmuring a quiet incantation to make himself less noticeable. His eyes never left Quirrell's still form.

/ Harry decided that the troll didn't have any destination in mind. His eyes never left the hulking form as he considered his options. He had no desire to kill it, but at the same time, he couldn't let it continue to roam the corridors. What if it ran into someone? After a moment of hesitation, he murmured a quiet full-body bind, and the troll went rigid and toppled forward. /

As the students fled to their dorms, and the teachers scurried toward the dungeon, Harry continued to stare at his fallen professor. It was then that he noticed the dark energy around Quirrell's head flare, a leeching spider web with a thousand tendrils that seemed to be searching for... for _something_. Harry could _feel_ them exploring the castle, dark power violating every corner of Hogwarts. The energy touched upon him, but instead of passing over him as it did the other students, it wrapped around him. He –

/ couldn't breath. He slumped against the wall of the restroom, fingers clawing at his own chest as if he could peel away the layers of skin and muscle. The energy – Quirrell? Voldemort? – _squeezed_ at his heart, worse than the pain of his scar because it permeated his entire body. He couldn't breath. The Alteralius spell only made it worse, an echo of phantom pains. He gasped /

– the sound echoing in the empty Great Hall. Harry's vision flickered, but for just a moment he was able to focus his eyes. Professor Quirrell stood barely three feet away from him, arm stretching towards him. The smile on Quirrell's face was a reflection of madness, lips stretched thin and teeth flashing. His scar pulsed against his forehead, the pressure so intense he felt as if his head would split. Something warm and wet trickled into his eyes –

/ and he crumpled to the floor, head knocking against the bottom of sink. There was so much energy – energy searching, and with dark delight, _finding_ / ! /, energy inside of him, clammy hands clutching at his heart / ? /, energy that _called_ to him /

– so he reached out –

/ and he took it. /

Distantly, Harry heard himself whisper as if from across a great canyon. Just as Quirrell's fingers brushed against his forehead, he wished himself away. To somewhere Quirrell could not touch him. To somewhere that he could be safe.

In the blink of an eye, Harry disappeared. Professor McGonagall burst into the girl's bathroom, brows drawn up in confusion as she stared at the incapacitated troll lying rigidly on the floor.

With a curse, Quirrell smothered his flaming fingertips against his robe.

o

Harry heard someone crying, and felt something scalding and soft splash onto his cheek. The... boy? sounded so sad; why was he crying?

It took more effort than Harry believed possible, but he opened his eyes, squinting against the bright light of the torches. He wasn't wearing his glasses; the room he was in seemed smudged. He could barely make out the figure who sat next to him, the mop of short blonde hair that moved in time with shaking shoulders.

Harry's fingers twitched marginally. The cloth beneath them rumpled.

He was lying on a... bed? A bed in a room that was unfamiliar to him. It wasn't a bed in the hospital wing, because he could make out a dark green border that circled along where the ceiling met the walls. Slytherin green.

What had happened? His head throbbed in an unpleasant reminder, and he remembered Quirrell's smile. He remember Quirrell reaching towards him, fingers splayed. He remembered the dark energy – Voldemort's energy.

A muffled sniff reminded Harry that he was not alone. He turned his head slowly, mindful of the ache, and reached out a hand that wouldn't stop trembling. Hesitantly, he touched the top of Draco's head.

"Dray?" he whispered.

Draco's head immediately shot up, and Harry's hand fell away. He found himself starring into wide, blue eyes beneath tear-spiked lashes.

"Harry!" The relief in his friend's voice was palpable.

"What's going on?" Harry asked as he struggled to sit up.

"You tell me! Quirrell burst into the Great Hall, screaming about a troll, and the teachers herded us out of there and to our dorms, and I went to your room first 'cause you said you were going to lay down, but you weren't _there_, so I waited outside your door, and all of the sudden Blaise ran up to me and said you were in _my_ bed, but you looked like you were _dead_ –" Draco's voice broke off suddenly, and the blonde turned away.

Harry took a moment to sort through his friend's babble, and when Draco turned to face him, he noted that though the blue eyes were puffy and red, they were dry.

Draco repeated in a calmer voice, "You looked like you were dead. Your scar was crusted with blood, and you were as pale as a ghost. I sent Blaise to get Professor Snape, but he couldn't because the teachers locked us in."

"Because of the troll," Harry said softly.

The blonde boy let out a shaky laugh. "Piss poor idea. Safe from the troll, but if anything happens inside the dorm, we're screwed." Draco bit his lip. "I thought you were dead, Harry."

Harry took in Draco's pale skin, his puffy eyes, and his hoarse voice. He saw Draco's hands were clenched together, and he was wringing them fiercely.

The realization dawned on him slowly; Draco had been crying... because he'd thought Harry was dead.

"You..." Harry hesitated. "You'd be... sad. If I died."

Draco stared at him, anger flushing his cheeks with red. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? I wouldn't be sad, Harry. I'd be bloody devastated. You're my best friend."

Harry felt something squeeze his heart. It didn't burn like the dark energy; it ached.

"I'm sorry," Harry said softly. "I didn't mean to worry you."

Draco leaned forward. "You're forgiven. So, you gonna tell me what happened, or are you going to leave me in the dark about why you were passed out in my bed?"

Harry bit his lip, and said slowly, "I don't know how I got here. I –" He paused. "Is this room warded?"

"Are you kidding?" the blonde said frankly, momentarily affronted enough to put aside the seriousness of the situation. "We're in the Slytherin dorms. Of _course_ it's warded!"

Reassured, Harry continued. "I was walking with the Baron –"

"The Bloody Baron?" Draco's brows drew together sharply. "I thought he lost interest in you."

"Publicly." Harry hesitated. It was difficult for him to talk so openly. The mantra his mind whispered to him looped; Draco could be trusted, Draco was Lucius' son.

Draco grinned. "You mean you've been meeting with him in private?"

"On Monday nights. We talk."

"So, you were walking with the Baron, and...?" Draco prompted.

"And we heard Quirrell. He was the one who let the troll into the school." Harry pressed his hand to his scar; it pulsed angrily, a slow, throbbing burn. "He can talk to them."

Draco's eyes widened. "That complicates things."

Harry nodded. "The troll headed to the dungeons, and Quirrell headed to the great Hall. I used that Alteralius spell I told you about and followed both of them."

"Good thinking. What happened then?"

Draco was Lucius' son.

"The troll didn't have any destination in mind. I... used a full body bind on it. Quirrell passed out in the Great Hall, and I watched him after everyone left."

"Back up a bit," Draco said, nibbling his lip. "You beat a _troll_?"

Harry nodded, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. He glanced down, fingers trailing a design over the green comforter.

"Bloody hell, Harry," the blonde whispered. "That's amazing."

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. Rather than giving Draco anymore time to dwell on something that wasn't very important, he continued, "I think... that Quirrell is Voldemort. Or that he's channeling Voldemort. I don't know."

"What!"

Draco was Lucius' son.

"After everyone left, he... did something. He sent out some kind of dark energy, and it was searching for something. " Harry frowned. "I think he found it."

"Found what?"

/ ! /

The hazy memory flitted away before Harry could make sense of it. "I don't know," he said finally. "I think he reached out to touch me, but... something happened." His brow furrowed. "I... did something. With the energy. And I woke up here."

Draco leaned back, exhaling heavily. "We'll figure out a way to stop him. Even he wasn't Voldemort, or channeling Voldemort, he _hurt_ you." Blue eyes narrowed. "I'll kill him."

Suddenly, Draco grinned. "Oh. By the way, do you wanna visit my manor for Christmas break?"

The change in Draco's face was so abrupt, flitting from murderous rage to boyish hope, that Harry found himself smiling too. He wasn't even consciously aware that the mantra in his head had shifted; Draco was Lucius' son, but Draco was also Harry's friend.

"Love to," Harry said. He didn't even flinch when Draco pulled him into a hug.

o

Everything was back to normal the following day, though all the professors were tight-lipped about what had happened with the troll. Professor McGonagall simply announced that it had been "taken care of." Only Draco knew that Harry had taken down the troll, and he'd sworn he wouldn't tell a soul.

The following weekend brought them into November, and the start of the Quidditch season. Throughout October, his weekends had been taken up with practices for both Slytherin and Gryffindor. It had been strange, going straight from one practice to the other, and very tiring as well, but his stamina had increased as he became accustomed to the rigorous schedule.

Not to say that he wasn't exhausted at the end of the day, but he could at least make it to his room without staggering, and he always made it to his bed before he passed out.

Gryffindor practices were scheduled bright and early on Saturday, which the Weasley twins, Fred and George, constantly moaned about. The three Chasers, Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, and Katie Bell seemed resigned to waking up with the sunrise, and the Captain and Keeper, Oliver Wood, _always_ bounced with barely concealed enthusiasm, a perpetual "morning person."

Despite the fact that Gryffindor house as a whole still didn't like Harry very much, the members of the Quidditch team didn't treat him badly. Oliver always patted him on the back – Harry could usually control his flinch – and told him "this year is the one," and "the other houses won't know what hit them!"

Angelina and Alicia were distantly polite, content to smile and nod in his direction when they ran into him in the hallways. Katie, on the other hand, didn't look at him very much, and when she did, she always blushed for some reason he could never puzzle out.

The Weasley twins were by far the most confusing members of the team, and subsequently the hardest to read. They treated him the same as they treated everyone else, all laughter and jokes, but sometimes he'd look up and find two pairs of brown, cunning eyes staring at him. Perhaps it was because they weren't quite sure what to make of him, but more often than not, their weighty stares made him feel like some sort of bug in a jar.

As soon as the twins noticed Harry had caught them, they'd look away from him and at each other. Then they'd grin, falling back into the roles of happy pranksters, but their eyes said they were silently talking. Somehow Harry got the feeling that they were talking about him.

Gryffindor practice usually ended around noon, and while the rest of the team ambled off the field, Harry waited. Exactly five minutes later – he'd timed it – the Slytherin team would appear.

Marcus Flint might be a solemn, angry student, but out on the pitch, he was just like Oliver Wood. He was energetic, enthused, and sometimes downright bubbly. Draco hadn't believe Harry when he'd described Marcus as such, and said that "bubbly" could only be used when talking about girls, but after he'd watched the team practice, he'd been wide eyed.

"Yeah," Draco had admitted later, still shaken, "You're right. Flint _is_ bubbly, _and_ bloody scary at that!"

Adrian Pucey and Cassidy Warrington were Chasers along with Marcus. It was strange to Harry, because both of them went out of the way to try and include him in conversation, as did Miles Bletchley, the Slytherin Keeper. Half of the time they wanted to talk to him, and the other half of the time, they just _looked_ at him, awe and reverence on their faces. Harry wondered if, perhaps, their parents were among his shadows.

The two Beaters, Derrick Ludemeer and Willow Bole, were like two sides of the same coin. The few times Harry had seen Derrick in school, he was as lighthearted as Fred and George Weasley. But when he was out on the pitch, he was calm, collected, and completely focused. It was eerie. Willow, on the other hand, was calm and collected in school, but she seemed like a little kid when she was on a broom. Relaxed and happy, but upon closer inspection, no less intent than Derrick.

Both Slytherin and Gryffindor had excellent teams. Individually, Gryffindor had stronger players, but as a whole, Slytherin worked better as a team. Marcus and Oliver were the best on their respective teams, hands down, and Harry decided that it probably evened out. Angelina, Alicia, and Katie were great Chasers, but Marcus was in a league of his own; Oliver was probably the only Keeper who could block him.

Both teams had selected reserve Seekers for when they played against each other. Slytherin had chosen Terence Higgs, a 6th year who was a very good flyer, and who had been their main Seeker before Harry came along. Gryffindor had nominated Andrew Kirke, a second year who didn't have much experience with flying, but had the potential to be a fair Seeker.

In a way, Harry could understand why both houses had chosen their reserve Seekers. Terence was a sure bet, but he'd be graduating in two years, which meant that a new reserve Seeker would have to be found and trained. Andrew, on the other hand, had six years before he graduated, which meant that by the time Terence graduated, he'd be comfortable with his position, and Slytherin would be floundering.

Unless, of course, Slytherin picked a secondary reserve Seeker and started training him as well. Harry figured that was probably what Marcus would do. The older boy _was_ a Slytherin, after all.

"You ready, Harry?" Marcus said softly to his right. The quiet voice called him back to reality.

Harry blinked once, then nodded. He made his way to a secluded corner of the locker room, careful to make sure no one was watching as he donned his green Quidditch robes. He supposed he should be excited – this was his first real match: Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw.

After he'd changed, he made his way to where the rest of the team stood. Marcus raised a hand, and the Slytherins were immediately silent.

"All right," Marcus said, drawling the words out with calculated coolness. "We've trained for this, and we've got the best team in the school. Derrick, Willow, their Beaters are pretty good. Spruce is fast, but his aim isn't very precise. McGonahan is the one you have to worry about – he's fast _and_ accurate."

Derrick and Willow glanced at each other. Harry head Willow murmur softly, "Do you want to take McGonahan?"

Derrick nodded.

Marcus continued, "Bratton is probably their best Chaser, so I'll cover him. Davies is pretty good, too, but Clearwater is hopeless. If you have to, you can leave her unguarded for a little bit. Now, their Keeper, Nollan, is decent, but not great. He can't handle a lot of people around the goals, so if we have the Quaffle, swarm him."

Adrian and Cassidy nodded, their twin smiles both eager and intent.

Finally, Marcus looked at Harry. "Their Seeker, Chang, is good, but she's no match for you. She's got decent eyes, but you're twice as fast as her." Unexpectedly, Marcus reached forward to tussle Harry's hair affectionately. "Don't worry. You'll kick her butt, hands down."

The clock on the wall struck eleven, and the team grabbed their brooms; it was time.

Harry followed Marcus' lead, and walked out onto the field. The cheers from the stands were thunderous, and it looked as though the entire school was there. Madam Hooch, the flying instructor, stood in the middle of the field with her broom in hand, and waited for both teams to get into place.

"All right," Hooch said loudly, "I'll be referee, so I want a fair game, you hear?" She gestured with her free hand and instructed, "Mount up, all of you."

Harry swung a leg over his Nimbus 2000, and out of the corner of his eye, he spotted several Ravenclaws eyeing his broom appreciatively. The Ravenclaw Seeker, Cho Chang, looked a little envious as she mounted her own broom, a Comet Two-Sixty.

Madam Hooch blew her silver whistle, and the shrill noise pierced the air. Fifteen brooms rose sharply, rocketing to eighty feet above the pitch. Marcus grabbed the Quaffle and took off toward Ravenclaw's Keeper; Adrian and Cassidy flanked his sides.

"And they're off! The Quaffle is stolen by Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint, without any dirty tricks, for once – Flint's a decent Chaser, even if he does look like the lovechild a troll and a –"

"JORDAN!"

"Sorry, Professor."

Harry scanned the field, trying to block out the commentator's voice. He'd seen Lee Jordan watch Gryffindor practice occasionally, and the older boy was a good friend of both of the Weasley twins. A Gryffindor himself, he wasn't very sympathetic toward Slytherins.

The only thing that made the commentary bearable was that Professor McGonagall cut Lee off whenever he went too far.

"He's speeding along quite nicely actually, a quick pass to Adrian Pucey – another quick pass to Cassidy Warrington – Warrington ducks a Bludger sent by Tommy Spruce of Ravenclaw and – Nope! – a second Bludger sent by Ravenclaw's Patrick McGonahan clips the end of Warrington's broom – Ravenclaw Captain Rodger Davies grabs the Quaffle, speeding towards the other end of the field. He's going to sco – No! – Nice save by Slytherin Keeper Miles Bletchley – passes to Flint who sends it to Pucey – Charles Bratton intercepts! He's got a clear field ahead of him and – OUCH! – that has to sting, Bratton drops the Quaffle, but you can't really blame him with a Bludger to the back of the head – Flint grabs the Quaffle, passes to Warrington, up the field, dodges a Bludger, passes to Pucey – Warrington and Pucey seem to be playing ping-pong, Quaffle goes back and forth – doesn't look like Ravenclaw Keeper Sean Nollan knows who to guard against – Adrian takes a shot – Nollan dives – misses – Slytherin scores!"

The Slytherins in the stands cheered loud enough to cover Ravenclaws groans and Gryffindors booing.

Harry sighed, lazily scanning the field for any sign of the Snitch. He spotted Cho Chang a few meters away, though it didn't look as though she was having any more luck than Harry.

"Flint takes control of the Quaffle again – both of Ravenclaw's Beaters slam Bludgers his way – Willow Bole, fairly attractive girl for a Slytherin, packs a powerful punch, deflects one –"

The Bludger Willow blocked ended up speeding towards Harry. Unconcerned, Harry let his broom dip sharply to avoid being hit.

"– and nearly takes out Harry Potter! Couple more plays like that and Cho Chang, Seeker for Ravenclaw, won't need to worry about the competition –"

"Sorry, Harry!" Willow called over, looking contrite.

Harry shrugged.

"Penelope Clearwater, lovely girl, makes a grab at the Quaffle – misses – Warrington takes a shot – Nollan blocks and – hey, is that the Snitch?"

By the time Lee had spoken, Harry was already diving for the little, golden blur. Cho Chang spotted it as well, and also dived, but she was so far behind Harry that he knew she wouldn't catch up. He pressed his broom for a little more speed, reaching his hand out to grab for it –

– and bit back a cry of pain as a Bludger whacked his outstretched fingers.

"Foul!" Marcus yelled, echoed by the Slytherins in the stands.

"– _nice_ play by McGonahan," Lee crowed. "Take _that_, you slimy –"

"Jordan," Professor McGonagall hissed.

"Right. Um – Hooch shakes her head, no penalty, and what does Flint mean by 'foul?' It's only a Bludger, Seeker Harry Potter is fine – if he can survive the Killing Curse, a stray Bludger shouldn't even phase him –"

Harry cradled his injured hand to his chest for a moment. He certainly didn't feel fine, and he was willing to bet that at least two or three bones in his hand were broken. He looked around for the Snitch, but it had already disappeared.

Marcus pulled up along side him, concern etched onto his face. "You all right, Harry?"

"I'll live," Harry replied dryly. Then he clenched his hand into a fist, ignoring the pain. "I can still play."

Marcus nodded, a strange glimmer of respect in his eyes, before he sped off.

"Ravenclaw in possession of the Quaffle, Bratton passes to Davies who takes a shot – Bletchley is busy avoiding a Bludger – Ravenclaw scores!"

Harry ducked a passing Bludger, a little more leery of them than before, and continued his search for the Snitch. Just as he caught a glimmer of gold out of the corner of his eye, his broom gave a sudden lurch.

Harry blinked, wrapping his hands around the hilt more securely, and ignoring the twinge of protest from his injured hand. His broom gave another lurch, and he blinked. There was a strand of Dark Magic coming from the teacher's box; he could feel it.

No one seemed to notice his broom acting up, and he spared a glance towards the stands. It had to be Quirrell.

His suspicion was confirmed a moment later; Quirrell was staring at him intently, and his lips moved silently. A few feet away, Snape was also mouthing a spell. Harry wondered, briefly, if Snape was trying to help him, but he decided it didn't matter. He had more pressing issues to deal with.

As his broom jerked rapidly back and forth, trying to buck him from his seat, Lee Jordan exclaimed, "– Ravenclaw in possession of the Quaffle, Bratton seems to have gotten his head straightened out after that last Bludger – a neat pass to Davies and – what's this? The Slytherin Seeker appears to be having some problems –"

The Slytherins in the stands stood as a whole, their voices raised in anger – they wanted the game stopped and Harry's broom searched for hexes. The Gryffindors on the other hand, booed and yelled that Slytherins couldn't win in a fair game and to stop trying to pull stupid stunts like this.

The broom gave another wild jerk, successfully tossing Harry from the seat. He made a wild grab at it, callused fingers wrapping around the hilt. As he dangled there, his precarious grip the only thing that kept him from falling to the ground at least one hundred feet below, he heard the Slytherins cry out again.

Frustrated, confused, and feeling helpless, Harry tightened his grip on the hilt and hissed, "Behave!"

The broom stopped bucking.

Rather than examine his good fortune too closely, he grabbed the broom with his other hand and pulled himself back into a sitting position. He waited for a moment to see if the broom would start up again; it didn't.

The Slytherins let out a cheer.

With his broom finally under control, Harry glanced back down to the teacher's box, and met the startled, angry eyes of Professor Quirrell. The man was still trying to curse him, but it didn't appear to be working, and Professor Snape looked perplexed. Harry was confused, but nonetheless thankful. When he was sure he had Professor Quirrell's complete attention, he gave into his impulses and stuck his tongue out.

Then he turned back to the game, dodged a Bludger, and let his eyes wander the pitch. Cho Chang hadn't even noticed his predicament and was still searching for the Snitch.

"– Slytherin scores! Potter looks like he's back in control of his broom – probably faking it, anyway – just the sort of trick that Slytherin _always_ pulls, like that game last year when –"

There was a scuffle, and Professor McGonagall's muted voice growled, "Jordan, I swear, if you don't –"

"Right, right. Sorry, Professor. Davies is in possession of the Quaffle, with a neat pass to Clearwater, who fumbles –"

Harry spotted the golden blur down near the grass of the field. This time, he vowed silently, it wouldn't get away. He lined up the tip of his broom to almost a ninety-degree angle, flattened his body against the stick, and he dove.

"What's this? Potter looks like he's lost control of his broom again, and now he's in free fall – narrowly misses a Bludger on the way down, and MERLIN – if he doesn't pull up soon, he's going to be a smear on the pitch –"

Harry ignored the startled cries in the stands, ignored Lee Jordan's hysterics, ignored everything except the sweet sing of the wind in his ears. The ground loomed below him, his field of vision narrowing, and he clung to his broom with his injured hand, stretching the other hand out in front of him.

"Somebody call Madam Pomfrey – Potter is closing in on the ground fast, fifteen feet, TEN, EIGHT, SIX, FOUR!"

Harry grabbed the Snitch, pulling up barely three feet from the ground. His toes skimmed the grass, and he raised his fist high. The sunlight caught the golden glow of the Snitch as it franticly beat tiny wings against his palm.

"Holy mother of Merlin, Potter caught the Snitch!" There was a pause, and Lee muttered, "I need to sit down," accompanied by a heavy thump.

The rest of the Slytherins landed nearby, practically crawling over one another to get to him. Soon he was surrounded by his team, who cheered and laughed and tried to hug him, much to his discomfort. Professor McGonagall's voice came over the speakers and announced, "Slytherin wins against Ravenclaw, one hundred and seventy to forty."

"Merlin, Harry, you nearly gave me a bloody heart-attack up there!" Marcus exclaimed, grinning widely. "What happened with your broom? Is your hand all right? Do you need to go to Madam Pomfrey?"

Derrick slapped him on the back, and Harry winced. "Great bloody game! Great bloody Seeker!" and Willow wrapped herself around Derrick, and kissed him soundly on the cheek.

Adrian and Cassidy and Miles were all laughing, and Marcus grabbed Harry's hand which still held the Snitch and raised it up high. The cheers from the Slytherins in the stands were deafening, and all Harry could make out was "We won! We won!"

"Um," Harry said hesitantly, and Marcus leaned down to hear him better. "I do need to go to Madam Pomfrey, actually."

Willow was by his side instantly, and Derrick came up beside her, his face bright red. The older girl asked quickly, "Why? What's wrong?"

"I'm pretty sure that Bludger broke a couple bones," Harry replied quietly.

The team looked horrified, and Marcus instantly let go of his hand. They surrounded him like an escort as they led him off the pitch, but even inside of Hogwarts, he could still hear Slytherin chanting: "Potter! Potter! Potter!"

When he caught the Snitch for Gryffindor in the match against Hufflepuff two weeks later, the cheers weren't even half as loud.

o

If things had been strange _before_ Harry had been sure of Professor Quirrell's deceptive nature, they'd now escalated to the point where even _Draco_ occasionally teased him about being paranoid. It had been... difficult, in the beginning. The first few DADA classes had born witness to a certain inexplicable tension between Harry and Quirrell.

The rest of the class had noted this, but most of the Ravenclaw's had written it off to Quirrell's inherent jumpiness. Even Hermione had commented, teasing that Quirrell was prone to jump at his own shadow, and Harry was as slight as a shadow himself.

Draco had heard her and Harry remembered seeing the blonde quirk a lazy smile at that. He could practically hear Draco thinking, "If only you knew."

For the most part though, Harry and Quirrell avoided each other completely. Harry knew that eventually he would have to deal with the older man, but for the moment, they shared an uneasy "cease-fire" of sorts. Neither of them, it seemed, wanted any public attention brought to themselves.

In the last week of November, during Potions Class, Professor McGonagall stopped in. She strode to the front of the room, spoke softly to Professor Snape for a few minutes, and handed him a small square of paper. She murmured a short farewell to Snape and swept out.

There was a moment of silence as Snape glanced over the note. Without looking up from the desk, he called out, "Mr. Potter, see me after class."

Even though he had won them a game, Gryffindor still refused to acknowledge Harry as one of their own. There was a quiet titter from them, and Ron actually called out, "Not so perfect, are you, Potter?"

"Five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley, unless you believe you possess the dexterity necessary to insult Mr. Potter and brew simultaneously," Snape said mildly, still not looking up.

The Gryffindors immediately calmed down, and Ron flushed a bright shade of red.

Draco leaned over and said softly, "Any idea what's going on?"

"None," Harry responded in the same tone.

They spent the rest of the class working in companionable silence, and by the time the bell rang, they'd just finished bottling two vials of perfectly colored Forgetfulness Potion.

As the rest of the class filed out, Harry hesitantly approached the desk. "Professor?"

"The Headmaster wishes to see you," Snape said shortly. "The password is 'Razzles.' I trust you can make your way to his office unchaperoned?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you." Harry politely excused himself.

Just as he was about to exit the classroom, Snape called out, "Detention with me, Potter, for talking during class time. I'll see you tonight at eight."

"Yes, sir," Harry replied. He stepped out of the room and headed towards the Headmaster's office. The students in the halls cupped their hands to their mouths, but he still heard their whispers.

"Did you see him play against Ravenclaw?"

"Who didn't?"

"Did you catch the game with Hufflepuff?"

"I know–"

"Youngest seeker of the century!"

"Of course. But c'mon–"

"Yeah–"

"– He's Harry bloody Potter."

As he reached the gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore's office, he murmured softly, "Razzles." After the stairs appeared, he began the long trek upwards, and hesitantly peeked through the doorway.

The Headmaster sat regally behind his desk. As soon as he spotted Harry's messy mop of hair, he smiled. "Come in, Harry. I've been expecting you."

Harry entered, wondering whether he should sit or continue to stand, when Dumbledore waved a hand toward a clutter-free chair. "Please, have a seat."

Harry slipped into the chair, and from the corner of the room, he heard a quiet trill. In his mind, the beautiful sound whispered, {Lovely, lonely, little boy.}

Harry started slightly and glanced around.

Dumbledore smiled, "You haven't met Fawkes yet, have you?"

"Fawkes?"

"He's a phoenix," the Headmaster replied, gesturing towards a perch to the side that Harry hadn't noticed. The beautiful bird there stared at him with small, intelligent eyes that reminded Harry of two glass beads. The bird flapped his wings once, regal and proud, and the red and gold feathers caught the light, shimmering every color of the spectra. The phoenix trilled again, and this time Harry heard, {Abashed, apologies, angry boy.}

"I..." Harry paused. "Do you understand what he says, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore laughed, "Alas, no. Only a bird-speaker could truly understand Fawkes, but I do well enough. When a creature such as he is your companion for so many years, it's impossible not to attune yourself to what they mean, if not what they actually say."

Harry pressed, "What did he mean?"

"I believe he was apologizing for startling you, my boy. Phoenixes are mysterious creatures, and I have noticed that unless they choose to announce their presence, they will, for the most part, be ignored." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Now, I am sure you are curious as to why I called you up here. There are three reasons, all to do with Christmas, actually."

"Christmas isn't for another month," Harry said softly.

Dumbledore waved a hand. "Yes, well, no harm in getting an early start on things. And Christmas gifts can never come too early, you know. Why, the best gift I ever received came three months before Christmas, from a dear school mate of mine, and my feet certainly didn't complain when the snow came around."

"Sir?" Harry said hesitantly.

"Lovely pair of socks, wooly without that dreadful itch," Dumbledore sighed happily as he reminisced. He blinked, then cleared his throat. "Ah. First, your key to Gringotts, as I imagine you'll be wanting to purchase gifts for your friends. Hagrid, our groundskeeper, was supposed to deliver this to you at the beginning of the school year. Unfortunately, he was called away on some rather important business. He apologizes sincerely for the inconvenience."

Harry blinked as the older wizard placed an ornate key onto the table. For a moment, he wondered how Dumbledore believed he'd paid for his robes and his books, but he realized that the older man probably believed the Dursleys had supplied him with what was needed.

The Headmaster continued, "Now, as to your second gift, well." He paused. "I had contemplated simply leaving it in your room. But even so, I do believe you'd still know it was from me. Takes all the fun out of it, really."

Harry mulled over that for a moment, and decided it was probably true. After all, the Headmaster was the only one who had access to his room without permission, and if something _had_ shown up, it would have had to come from Dumbledore.

With a flourish, Dumbledore placed a small, wrapped parcel onto the desk, nudging it towards Harry. "Your father left this in my possession before he died. I feel is time it was returned to you." One bushy, white eyebrow raised slightly. "You may open it now, if you wish, or wait until Christmas. All I ask it that you are careful."

Harry hesitated. Curiosity, the ugly habit, prompted him to reach forward and unwrap the gift. A moment later, he turned the soft, shimmering material over in his hands, recognizing it as an invisibility cloak. Very old, very rare, and _very_ valuable, he remembered. Lucius had once told him that you couldn't _buy_ such a thing anymore, and that they were passed down through families as priceless heirlooms.

Harry swallowed heavily, and glanced up at Dumbledore. The older man was studying him through sharp, blue eyes.

"Use it well."

Something happened then. Something that Harry couldn't quite put a finger on. Perhaps it was the Headmaster's expression, contrived altruism over cunning purpose, or perhaps it was the startling depth of clarity in his eyes, but either way Harry finally realized why Lucius had told him to be careful of Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore smiled suddenly, benignly, and the tension in the room disappeared. "Which brings us to the final reason I called you up here today. With Christmas comes Christmas break, and I thought, perhaps, you might be staying at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall is currently taking names–"

"Draco invited me to spend Christmas at his Manor," Harry interjected quietly.

The old man's eyebrows rose sharply. "Did he now?"

Harry nodded.

"Did you accept his invitation?"

Again, Harry nodded.

"Well." Dumbledore stroked his fingers on the underside of his chin. "I wouldn't dream of asking you to revoke such a gift. It was most gracious of Mr. Malfoy."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said softly. "And thank you for the cloak."

"Think nothing of it, my boy." Dumbledore's voice was vague. Harry took the Headmaster's indifference as a dismissal. He gathered up the key and the cloak and carefully packed both into his bag. Then he turned and headed toward the stairs.

Dumbledore's voice interrupted him just as he reached the door. "Harry?"

Harry turned. "Yes, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore's eyes were intent on his own. "The dual nature of Gryffindor and Slytherin is a difficult path to walk, my boy." The older man paused, then added, "Much like the nature of the human soul."

Harry blinked. After a moment of silence, he said softly, "Headmaster?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"What if I don't have a soul?"

Dumbledore blinked and replied mildly, "Then I suppose you have nothing to worry about."

After another moment of silence, Harry turned and walked down the stone steps. From a distance, he heard Fawkes trill, {Lovely, lonely, little boy.}

o

Draco had, of course, been almost jealous when Harry showed him the invisibility cloak. He'd confessed that his father had one, too, and that it would be passed onto him one day. The blonde had brightened considerably when Harry told him that until that day came, Draco was always welcome to use his.

"You've got to try it out, Harry!" Draco had prompted him two weeks into December. He stretched out on Harry's bed, stroking the top of Samson's head gently; the little snake hissed approval. "I mean, you've had it for _weeks_ and you haven't even used it once!"

"Where would I go?" Harry replied softly. He stood by the window, petting an approving Hedwig in much the same manner.

"Explore the castle, dummy! I mean, you could sneak into _anywhere_, and no one would ever know!" Draco raised his chin a little, donning a superior attitude the same way Harry might don his cloak. It was impressive that he could pull it off, considering his sprawled position on the bed. "You go out tonight, explore the castle, and find something really interesting that the students don't know about. Then tomorrow we'll go together and you can show it to me."

Harry bit back a smile and remained silent.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Okay. You win." The blonde clasped his hands together beneath his chin and begged, "Please?"

This time, Harry actually did smile. Just a little, and just to quirk his mouth, but it was a smile nonetheless. "All right, Draco. I'll do it."

"Brilliant!" Draco exclaimed. "Can I stay here tonight, then? So you can tell me about it when you come back?"

"Of course," Harry responded easily. "Hedwig and Samson would be lonely otherwise."

Later that night, the Slytherin portrait swung open. No one entered, and no one left, and it closed a moment later, with no one the wiser as Harry crept silently beneath his invisibility cloak. He roamed the corridors, wondering where to begin his search. What was something the students didn't know about? What was something interesting enough to appease Draco's curiosity?

He briefly contemplated going to the corridor that Dumbledore had forbidden at the beginning of the school year. Where was it again? The third floor corridor on the right hand side?

Even thinking the words sent a chill through Harry, and a knot of ice seemed to settle in his stomach. He didn't know why, but he found himself loath to explore the hidden corridor.

Harry heard a gruff voice close to his left and he froze. It only took him a moment to place the voice, and by that time, Filch, the custodian of Hogwarts, had come into view.

"You really think a student would be thick enough to try an break into the Restricted Section again, Professor? I mean, after the example you made of that last one –"

It was Professor Snape's voice that responded silkily, "Do you really need me to dignify that with an answer? I've yet to meet a student who could learn from just _one_ example."

Harry pressed back against the wall, and the two men passed him by. There was a moment where Harry thought that the invisibility cloak wasn't working, because Snape paused and turned, staring intently at the exact spot where Harry stood.

"Everything all right, Professor?"

Then Snape sighed, the puff of air brushing one strand of hair away from his face. He replied, "Yes. I think I must be loosing my mind."

Filch laughed heartily. "Teaching does that to a man."

Snape actually smiled, and the expression wiped years from his face. "I suppose it does, at that."

The pair continued to walk, and when they were out of sight, Harry let out a soft, relieved sigh. He glanced around, and started when he saw a door directly across from him, slightly ajar.

He blinked. He could have sworn that there hadn't been a doorway there a moment before. Cautiously, he moved across the hallway and peeked inside.

The room was empty, save a towering mirror at the far end. The top touched the ceiling, and the ornate golden frame shimmered faintly. As Harry stepped into the room and walked closer to the mirror, he could make out an inscription.

"_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi."_

Harry blinked. Lucius had taught him several languages, but the words were completely foreign to him. There weren't _any_ similarities, which he'd thought was impossible, because all languages were descended from a basic few – consequently, the few Lucius had insisted he learn.

If it wasn't a language, though, what could it be? A puzzle, perhaps?

He played around with the letters, rearranging them into a series of anagrams, but there were so many possibilities. He even tried to rearrange the letters into other languages.

He wondered, idly, why someone would make it so difficult to decipher the inscription. Then again, perhaps he was looking at it all wrong. What if he was making the solution more difficult than it had to be?

On an impulse, he read the inscription backwards.

"Is... no. I show no... not your face but your he... hearts desire." Harry blinked, stunned, and repeated. "I show not your face but your hearts desire." He moved forward, letting the cloak fall to the floor, and peered into the mirror.

He paused, then glanced behind him. The room was empty.

But the mirror – he looked at it again – the mirror showed a room full of people, crowded together, grinning and laughing. Lucius stood in the front, Draco in his arms, and Harry squinted.

No, it wasn't a trick. Lucius looked like a new man. There weren't any shadows in his eyes, and his shoulders were straight and squared. His smile was brilliant, and he looked... happy. He looked happier than Harry had ever seen him.

While he watched, Lucius pressed an affectionate kiss to the top of Draco's head, and Draco opened his mouth in silent laughter. Draco's arms encircled Lucius neck, and Lucius looked every inch the proud parent, indulgently and lavishly spoiling his son with adoration.

Crabbe and Goyle were there, too, with Vincent and Gregory. Two women stood with them – women who Harry had never seen before – but he could see traces of them in the two boys, and realized that these women were Vince and Greg's mothers.

Zabini, his faithful, stoic shadow, was grinning. Blaise stood by his side, but Harry had seen Blaise smile before. In all the years that Harry had known him, he'd never seen Zabini smile, much less grin.

And there, a little further back, was Peter. He stood with a haggard, shaggy man who Harry only recognized by description – Sirius Black, his godfather – and another, smaller man in plain, brown robes who Harry guessed was probably Remus Lupin. The three men were huddled together, arms draped over one another in a show of friendship.

Looking at this Peter, his mischievous, smiling face, and his twinkling brown eyes, Harry could see the boy that had once been a Marauder.

All of them, all of his shadows and their children were there. Avery, Parkinson, Pansy - all of them were smiling at him, carefree and joyous.

Abruptly, Harry turned away and refused to look into the mirror again. He grabbed his cloak, wrapping himself in it, and fled from the room.

Later he would tell Draco that he hadn't found anything interesting, and apologize and promise to buy him as many chocolate frogs as he wanted until the blonde forgave him. But for now, as he headed back to the Slytherin dorms, he tried to erase the image from his mind. He couldn't.

The mirror was good. It had shown him what he desired.

He just hadn't seen himself anywhere in the inviting image.

o

A week later found Harry and Draco trying to stuff all of Draco's robes into a trunk. Finally they resorted to magic to shrink them, and Draco was thrilled to finally learn the charm.

"I can _never_ fit everything in the way my father does," the blonde confessed with a frown. Then he grinned, "Now I won't have to."

Harry tucked the information away for later. Perhaps he could buy Draco a trunk like his own for Christmas? He'd have to talk to Lucius about going to Diagon Alley – there were so many people he needed to find (or make) presents for.

After they finished packing, Harry swung by his room to shrink his own trunk. After he pocketed it, he glanced around and spotted Samson snoozing contentedly on the bed. He gently tapped the snake on the nose. _/ Lazy serpent, /_ Harry murmured affectionately.

_/ Isss it time to - /_ the snake paused, jaws opening wide in the likeness of a yawn, _/ - to leave, ssskin-brother...? /_

_/ It is, /_ Harry replied softly. He carefully picked Samson up, wrapping the slender serpent around his neck. Samson snuggled into the folds of Harry's robe, hissed something too soft for Harry to understand, and promptly fell back asleep.

**{Lazy serpent,}** Hedwig hooted indignantly from her perch. But her words were belied as she flew over and landed gently on Harry's shoulder; she was very careful that her claws didn't touch the serpent's tail.

As Harry walked through the dorms and back to Draco's room, Hedwig questioned, **{Are you excited, fledge?}**

Harry glanced around, and seeing no one, he replied, **{About what?}**

There was a soft rumble of amusement, and Hedwig nipped his ear. **{About Christmas! About visiting your shadows! About spending time with the sun-kissed child!}**

**{I... }** Harry paused. He'd never really had a good Christmas before. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had always spent the day with Dudley as they unwrapped their gifts and Harry had been left sitting in a corner to watch. And he'd never spent Christmas with his shadows before, either, because Christmas was a time for family, and they'd all had family to spend it with.

Now he'd be spending Christmas with Lucius and Draco. Was that the name for the ball of tension in his stomach? Excitement?

**{Fledge?}**

Harry stroked the bit of her that he could comfortably reach – her tail feathers – in reassurance. **{I'm all right. It's just... I think I am excited. It feels... strange.}**

As he reached Draco's room, the door burst open and Draco nearly ran into him. Hedwig gave the blonde a reproachful stare, and ruffled her feathers. Samson continued to sleep, softly snoring.

"Ready, Harry?" Draco asked. "Father said he'd meet us in the Great Hall, and then we're going to walk to the Hogwarts Express and he's going to apparate us home!"

The knot in Harry's stomach tightened at the last word, but Harry ignored the feeling and replied, "Let's go."

The pair of them made their way to the Great Hall, and nearly everyone they passed by wished them a Merry Christmas. As the doors of the Hall swung open, Harry immediately spotted Lucius' long, blonde hair. Another feeling crept its way up his throat, and he wondered if this was what it felt like to see someone he missed.

"Father!" Draco exclaimed, and took off towards the older Malfoy.

Harry saw Lucius look over from where he was currently engaged in conversation with... Professor Snape? The Potions Master frowned when he spotted Harry silently trailing Draco.

"Draco," Lucius replied softly, calm and controlled. He reached forward, and the two Malfoys shared a brief embrace.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Potter?" Snape asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Before Harry could respond, Lucius drawled, "Why, Severus, hadn't you heard? After Draco told me how..." The blonde man paused, as if searching for the right word. "... _close_ he'd become to young Potter here, I simply had to invite the boy to stay with us over Christmas break."

Snape's jaw worked comically for a moment before he snapped his mouth shut with an audible click. "No," he hissed, "I hadn't heard."

Lucius laughed, the picture of innocence. "How strange." Then he smiled, like a hungry predator. "I must admit, I am looking forward to getting better... acquainted with young Harry." Without taking his eyes off Snape, he reached over and gently tussled Harry's hair.

Harry blinked, confused, and stared up at Lucius.

Professor Snape practically snarled, "Perhaps I might stop by some time. For old time's sake."

Lucius purred, "I'd be most pleased if you would." Then he leered, "For old time's sake."

Snape went rigid. His lips pursed tightly, and he glared, first at Lucius, and then at Harry. "Good day, Mr. Malfoy."

"Lucius," the blonde correctly lightly. "And good day to you, Severus."

Snape whisked away, stalking from the Great Hall, and Lucius led both Harry and Draco out of Hogwarts. As they walked briskly across the snow-covered path, Harry asked softly, "Why did you do that?"

Lucius glanced down at Harry, and smiled sadly. "Because he expected me to." He paused, then sighed. "Severus most likely believes that my intentions are to gain your trust, then to use you. Or, perhaps, to deliver you into the hands of the Dark Lord, should he ever return."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, and Draco reached out and took Harry's hand. Draco's fingers were warm, despite the chill. Surprised, Harry looked at his blonde friend, but Draco simply smiled.

All three of them boarded one of the many enchanted boats that littered the shore of the school, and as soon as they settled, the boat took off, gliding gingerly along the frozen surface of the lake.

Harry contemplated Lucius words, then asked curiously, "Would you?"

Lucius started and stared at Harry, affronted. "Should the Dark Lord mean you any harm, I would fight him to my dying breath, Harry."

Draco's hand squeezed his lightly, echoing the sentiment.

Harry nibbled his lip. "So... if you don't intend to use me, and you're not going to turn me over to Voldemort, why does it matter what Snape believes?"

Lucius smiled, a Slytherin smile, and replied, "My Lord, he'd have been _more_ suspicious if I hadn't done anything. Right now, I know where he stands, and he knows where I'd like him to believe I stand."

Harry mulled over that for a moment, and a slow smile came to his lips. Then he laughed, surprising both himself and his companions. To explain, he simply said, "Slytherins."

Both Malfoys joined him in laughter, and the sound rang out across the lake and traveled up to the castle where an old wizard sat and stared out the window. Albus Dumbledore watched, a small, curious smile tugging at his lips.

Beside him, Fawkes trilled.

And Dumbledore murmured softly, "Indeed."

o


	10. Book 1, Chapter 09: Malfoy Manor

Title: In Memory I

Author: Becka

Chapter 9: Malfoy Manor

o

The first time Harry had seen Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he'd felt there was something familiar about the magnificent castle. The magic had been warm and welcoming, encircling him to whisper, _"You've come home."_

Malfoy Manor greeted him in much the same way.

As he walked through the grand hallways of the manor, trailing just a little behind Draco, he found his senses overwhelmed. The magic of the building enveloped him, filling him with foreign desire. The floor beneath him urged him to take his shoes off and dig his toes into the sinfully plush carpet. The portraits on the walls silently enticed him to stop and chat with them, generations of Malfoys with tiny, aristocratic smiles, and steely blue eyes.

The walls around him beckoned and strangely his fingertips reached out of their own accord. The marvelous stone was warm to the touch, and he felt a ripple of amusement from the building itself. He sensed the love this household had for it's residents; he felt himself being drawn into that fold as he was recognized and marked as family, much to his surprise.

There were _stories_ inside of these walls, he realized with more than a little awe. Stories that stretched back to the instant the first cornerstone was placed. Stories that the building urged him to explore.

Ahead of him, Draco seemed to notice that Harry was no longer following. He turned and questioned, "Harry?"

"Just... hold on a second," Harry murmured in reply, and he closed his eyes.

"_Father!"_

The word brushed by his ear like a delicate caress, and sounded so very far away.

"_Father,"_ the child's voice called again, _"Look what I've found!"_

In his mind, he saw the same corridor where he stood, reproduced down to the smallest detail. There were subtle changes all around him, though – an ancient tapestry to his left that hadn't been there before, a flawless vase that had been chipped, a stain on the carpet that hadn't yet been removed.

And where Draco had stood, a young child with bright blue eyes the color of the morning sky, in robes just slightly too large to fit him properly.

The ghost of memory laughed, delighted, innocent eyes fixing on a point just over Harry's shoulder.

Harry felt a curious warmth spread through him as another ghost, another memory, stepped _through_ him. Lucius' long, blonde hair wasn't quite as long as it had been that morning, but the small, indulgent smile on his face was exactly the same.

The boy reached out and their ethereal fingers linked. The boy tugged insistently on Lucius' hand, digging his tiny bare feet into the carpet for support. _"C'mon, c'mon! You're gonna' miss it!"_

"_Very well,"_ Lucius said formally, but his smile belied the words. He leaned forward to scoop up Draco in his arms. _"Show me."_

Lucius walked further down the hall, and both memories began to fade away, blurring at the edges. Draco peeked over his father's shoulder. As guileless blue eyes met startled green, the child grinned widely and giggled, _"You can come to."_

Harry's eyes snapped open.

Draco's face was barely an inch away from Harry's. The blonde boy grinned. "Hello? Anybody in there?"

"Sorry," Harry replied softly, and he pulled his hand away from the wall.

o

Later that night, the two boys lay in their respective beds. Lucius had seemed surprised when Harry approached him and politely asked if they'd be allowed to put a second bed into Draco's room for the duration of Christmas break.

Samson shifted in his sleep on Harry's pillow, and Hedwig had already tucked her head into the crook of her wing, feathered breast rising and falling peacefully. There was no movement from Draco's bed.

It was strange, Harry reflected. Every night at school, Draco would knock on Harry's door and the two of them would talk with Samson until one of them yawned and they realized the time. Some days Draco would sneak back to his room, but as the school year progressed, more often than not the blonde just snuggled back into the plush bed and said he was too tired to go back to his room.

Now, even though Draco was still in the same room, Harry found it difficult to fall asleep. He'd gotten so used to being in the same bed, with Draco's arms and legs a tangled mess as he hogged all the covers. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd woken up without fine gold-spun strands of hair tickling his nose.

The torches on the wall flickered briefly, and Harry resisted the urge to turn fitfully beneath the covers. Finally, he whispered, "Draco?"

"Yeah?" came the reply, soft and instant.

"…" Harry paused, at a loss. He'd called out his friend's name, but he hadn't wanted anything. He'd just needed to assure himself that Draco was still there, within three step's distance. Finally he said, "You really... loved growing up here, didn't you?"

Draco laughed at the odd question, and from the corner of his eye, Harry saw the covers on the other bed quiver. "I guess." There was another pause, a silence that stretched, but not uncomfortably. Then, "Why?"

"Tell me," Harry whispered back, and his fingers moved against his will, grabbing fistfuls of the bedsheets tightly. "Tell me what it was like."

Draco sat up halfway, propping himself on one elbow to stare at Harry. "What do you mean?" the blonde asked curiously.

"Tell me... about your father. About your mother." Harry swallowed, the words threatening to stick in his throat. "About what it was like... growing up in this house."

The blonde fell back on his bed, and his mouth curved into a soft smile. "You're really weird sometimes, y'know, Harry? I mean, growing up is the same no matter where you are, isn't it?"

Harry's heartbeat seemed loud and unforgiving to his own ear. His fingers twisted the bedsheet, and his lips trembled, struggling to form a word he'd long since forgotten the meaning of.

Draco continued, "You'd probably be bored of it in five minutes. I mean –"

"Please."

Draco paused. Hesitantly, he said, "Well. Don't say I didn't warn you." He cleared his throat, as if embarrassed. "Um... I guess I'd start with my mother. I don't know her, not really. She and my dad had a falling out after I was born. She still goes to social events with us and stuff, to keep up appearances, but I don't even remember the last time she's said more than two words to me."

The blonde paused, turning his head to glance at Harry. "It doesn't bother me any more. It used to, a little, but my dad is awesome and I think I'm happier with just him around. And you know my dad. I mean, you've known him for as long as I have, anyway." Draco snorted, reaching up to brush his hair from his eyes. "It's kind of embarrassing, but he used to tell me bedtime stories about you."

"Me?"

"Yeah." Draco snuggled back into his covers, tucking his hands behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. "Once upon a time, y'know?"

Harry didn't, but he kept silent, inviting Draco to continue.

"I guess I had a fun childhood," the blonde frowned thoughtfully. "I mean, Greg and Vince were always here, and I visited them all the time, too. We always got into trouble when our parents weren't around, but Dobby – he's my personal house elf – he always got us out and covered for us."

"I was worried when I found out he couldn't come to Hogwarts with me," he continued, "'cause I'm always getting into trouble. But then I met you, and you take better care of me than he does."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked softly.

"Well, Dobby always bailed me out of trouble, like I said... but you make sure I don't get into trouble, if that makes any sense." Draco shrugged. "I guess that's what best friends are for."

"I guess," Harry echoed.

"You know," Draco mused, "I had a lot of friends when I was younger – Greg and Vince, of course. And Pansy was all right, for a girl. Blaise was always a bit strange, and Teddy – Theodore – was shy, but both of them are good guys. I guess it's normal that we're in different houses at school, but I always figured we'd all be in Slytherin together." The blonde snorted softly, "Growing up kind of sucks."

Harry closed his eyes, remembering the simplicity of his garden, and replied quietly, "It kind of does."

o

The next day, Lucius, Draco, and Harry sat around the small table in one of the dens, enjoying a light breakfast. At first, Harry had been confused – why were they eating in a den and not the dining room? He'd hesitantly voiced the question, and both Malfoys had laughed.

Draco smiled from across the table and said, "You didn't get the full house tour, yet, so I guess you don't know. The dining room table is _huge_. Way too big for just three people, anyway."

Lucius continued, the corners of his mouth upturned slightly, "Indeed. We only use it for family dinners and social events, partly because of the size, and partly because it is adjacent to the ballroom." The older Malfoy reached over and tousled Harry's hair affectionately. "The dinner and dance for the Christmas Ball will be held there. Seeing both rooms decorated for Christmas is a sight to behold; I think you'll enjoy it."

"Christmas Ball...?" Harry repeated quietly.

Lucius' eyes held a hint of promise as he replied, "You'll have to wait and see."

"Speaking of Christmas..." Draco said suddenly, let the sentence trail off as he reached for a piece of buttered toast. His eyes shifted towards his father as he took a bite.

"Speaking of Christmas," Lucius echoed, amused. He didn't elaborate, but rather reached for a slice of toast himself. He took care to spread a bit of jam on one corner before taking a bite.

"Well," Draco said, "Christmas is coming, you know." He took another bite of toast.

"Indeed," Lucius agreed, "It is." He spread jam on another corner.

"Right around the corner, really," Draco continued. "And with Christmas comes all sorts of things." He took a third, big bite of toast, so that all that was left was a wedge of crust.

"Good tidings?" Lucius hazarded, lazily spreading jam on the rest of the toast before taking a bite to match his son.

"Presents," Draco said decisively, finishing off the toast. He licked the crumbs from his fingers.

"Of course," Lucius replied. He took his final bite and reached for a napkin.

Watching their playful banter, Harry's mouth curled up of its own accord.

"But, you know," Draco continued, reaching for his cup of hot chocolate, "Presents don't just pop out of nowhere, despite all that Muggle hype about a Santerclause."

"Oh?" Lucius said softly, lifting his teacup to hide a smile.

"S'truth!" Draco said, sipping his hot chocolate. "And you know, since Harry's here..." He trailed off, leaving the statement open.

"Ah," Lucius said, still smiling as he set his teacup down. "You do make a valid point. I suppose it's only proper, as it is Harry's first Christmas with us."

Smugly, Draco reached for another slice of toast.

After breakfast was over, Draco grabbed Harry's hand – a gesture that Harry had long since become accustomed to, though not entirely comfortable with – and dragged him towards their shared bedroom.

" – what's – the – rush – ?" Harry managed to get out as they dashed through the hallways.

"Didn't you hear father?" Draco called back breathlessly, "We're going to Diagon Alley today!"

o

Diagon Alley was bustling with people. Witches and wizards – a few of whom Harry recognized as Lucius called out and received greetings – milled about in heavy cloaks over their robes. Many of them were buried behind packages stacked so high that all Harry could make out were the tops of pointy hats. The streets and shops glowed with various decorative enchantments, and a recent snowfall had left a dusting of fine powder on the roofs and cobblestone streets.

Harry himself wore a simple, heavy cloak of wool, and Samson was wrapped up in the hood, snoring softly. The warm weight of the snake's body, Harry mused, was better than any scarf. His matching gray cap served a dual purpose – it kept his head warm, of course, but it also covered his scar.

Draco and Lucius, in contrast, had both donned fur cloaks that had been dyed white, and the younger Malfoy also sported a matching fur cap. The white fur, coupled with his blonde hair and pale skin, should have made Draco looked washed out, but instead it made him look like a china doll on a shelf, regal and untouchable.

"Well then," Lucius said as he walked behind the two boys, carefully making sure that no one bumped into them, "First we'll need to stop by Gringotts. Harry, did Dumbledore give you the key to the Potter vaults?"

Harry nodded, fishing the key out of his pocket.

"Excellent," Lucius said, and he ushered the boys towards the majestic white building that Harry had only ever seen from the outside. As they walked through the first set of bronze doors, the attending goblin bowed politely to them. Lucius and Draco ignored the gesture, but Harry paused and bowed politely back. The goblin blinked in surprise, giving Harry an incredulous look. Then the goblin smiled, just a little, and just the very corners of his mouth.

"Harry," Lucius called from beyond a second set of silver doors.

The goblin's smile widened a little. "Best be on your way, sir."

"What's your name?" Harry asked impulsively.

Surprise flitted across the dark-skinned, angular face, but the goblin replied, "Warnel, sir."

"Nice to meet you, Warnel," Harry said softly, and he bowed a second time before entering the building.

His feet ghosted across the white, marble floor. When he finally caught up with both Malfoys, Draco leaned over and whispered, "You're so weird sometimes, Harry. Nobody bows to goblins!"

The trio made their way past the rows of nearly one hundred seated goblins, all intent on their work. Many of them scribbled in ancient, leather-bound ledgers, checking and cross checking the smaller accounting books littering their desks. A few goblins were using small monospectacles to examine gemstones, and Harry noted that the goblins with gemstones worked in pairs. One would examine the gemstone, and the other would sketch measurements and notes on a scroll as they conferred.

Lucius stopped in front of a long counter at the very back of the room and one of the goblins behind it greeted him, "A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Malfoy. What can I do for you today?"

"I've come to pick up a bit money for Christmas shopping," Lucius replied. "We'll need to stop at two family vaults – Malfoy and Potter."

The goblin blinked, then swiveled his head to focus on Harry. After a cursory examination, the goblin turned back to Lucius and asked, "You have both keys, sir?"

Lucius nodded, pulling a key from the inner folds of his robe. He handed it to the goblin and gestured for Harry to do the same.

After examining both keys, the goblin nodded and returned them. "Everything appears to be in order." He waved to a nearby goblin and instructed, "Hurate, please take Mr.'s Malfoy, and Mr. Potter to their vaults."

"Thank you," Harry said to the goblin behind the counter, and he got halfway through a bow before Draco – rolling his eyes at Harry's bizarre etiquette – grabbed his hand and pulled him away.

Hurate, a stout goblin with a stoic face, ushered them through one of the many doors that lined the walls. Beyond the door, the walls and floor were made of stone, similar to the dungeons of Hogwarts. Lucius, Draco, and Harry followed the goblin down a slope, moving carefully so as not to lose their footing, and reached a series of railroad tracks at the bottom.

A small gurney rattled along the tracks and halted in front of them. After situating themselves as comfortably as they could – Hurate positioning himself towards the front – the cart took off, whizzing through narrow, convoluted passages that were just barely illuminated by the torches on the wall. The ride was bumpy and unpleasant, but Harry found himself enjoying the feeling of weightlessness as they turned corners at breakneck speeds; it reminded him of flying.

Beside him, Draco uttered a low-pitched moan. Harry glanced over and was surprised to see his blonde friend had his eyes tightly shut, and he clutched at the corner of the cart with white knuckles. Lucius didn't look much better himself, though the older Malfoy was more adept at hiding his discomfort; he seemed paler than usual, and his fists were clenched tightly at his sides.

In stark contrast, Hurate, the goblin, wore a bored look, and his foot tapped against the bottom of the cart impatiently. "Would you mind if we went a bit faster?" he asked casually.

"No!" Draco said, opening his eyes in his horror. At that moment, the cart lurched unpleasantly and Draco moaned again, closing his eyes again as he hunkered into the corner.

"This speed is quite acceptable," Lucius muttered.

"Suit yourself," Hurate sighed, and he leaned against the side of the cart leisurely.

Just as Harry thought Draco might lean over the side of the cart to vomit, they skidded to a rocky halt. The blonde boy was the first to climb out, followed quickly by Lucius. Harry waited politely until Hurate stepped off before following.

Draco leaned against the stone wall, apparently grateful that his feet were on solid ground. Harry watched him for a moment, then turned his gaze to the goblin who carefully unlocked a door in a nook in the wall. A puff of green smoke escaped through the door and dissipated into the air.

"Mr. Potter," Hurate said formally, gesturing to the open door. "Your vault."

Harry looked to Lucius, who nodded, and they both stepped inside. The vault was enormous, and the ceiling stretched up nearly twenty feet. Piles of galleons and sickles were stacked along the walls, and they twinkled brightly, like an ancient treasure hoard.

From the doorway, Draco gave a low whistle. "Bloody hell, Harry, you're loaded!"

"Language," Lucius reprimanded sharply. "Though I must admit," he added, "I didn't expect Lily and James to leave you quite so well off."

Harry's eyes scanned the rest of the room quickly. Toward the back of the vault were a few bookcases that housed ancient, leather-bound tomes. There were a few trinkets on the shelves as well – a murky bauble that Harry identified as a frozen pensieve, a small, jeweled box, a purple candle – and to the left of the shelves was an ornamental table, parchments and scrolls littering the surface.

Turning to the goblin in the doorway, Harry asked, "Are there any limitation on what I can take with me?"

Hurate frowned, puzzled by the question, and replied, "Everything in this vault is yours, Mr. Potter. You may take or leave whatever you see fit."

"Ah," Lucius said suddenly, "I'd forgotten." He reached into his robes and pulled out a leather pouch. He passed it to Harry with a small, apologetic smile.

After a second glance around the room, Harry knelt and scooped a few handfuls of galleons into the pouch. Then he moved toward the bookcases, glancing over a few of the titles. The tomes were quite old, and he'd only ever heard of two of them before. He decided that he'd have to come back and pick them at a more convenient time.

Harry sensed a few enchanted jewels scatted among the mounds of coins, and he carefully collected them. He also took the trinkets from the shelves and gathered the papers and scrolls on the desk. Then he turned to Lucius and said softly, "Mr. Malfoy, would you please shrink these for me?" He'd decided that addressing Lucius with his full title would be less suspicious than calling the man by his given name, because the goblin was still watching from his post at the door.

"Of course, Harry," Lucius replied, and it only took the older Malfoy a moment to reduce the papers, the pensieve, the jeweled box, and the candle down to miniature versions, which Harry slipped into his pocket.

When Harry was finished, Hurate sealed up door without preamble, and they proceeded to the Malfoy vault. The ride wasn't nearly as long, for which Harry was grateful because he didn't think Draco could stomach much more bouncing around.

o

Having collected everything they needed from Gringotts, the trio made their way back to Diagon Alley. As they walked, Draco suddenly suggested, "Should we spit up?"

Lucius paused, pondering the question at length before responding, "I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of both of you running around by yourselves, but it does raise the question of how to make our purchases without giving away the surprise of Christmas day."

"We wouldn't need to be apart for the entire day," Draco wheedled, glancing at Harry as if to say, "Help me out!"

"We could meet somewhere in an hour," Harry quietly proposed.

Lucius' mouth quirked a little, obviously seeing through their unsubtle attempt to double-team him. He relented, "Very well. We will meet at the Leaky Cauldron in two hours."

"Thank you, father!" Draco grinned. "See you then!" He dashed quickly down the street, as if he thought Lucius might change his mind, and disappeared into one of the shops.

"Silly boy," Lucius murmured softly, fondly. He glanced at Harry, a small twist to his lips. "He didn't even wait for me to give him his money."

Harry smiled. "I'll see you in two hours, sir."

The blonde man nodded, then headed in the direction Draco had run.

Now alone, Harry didn't know where to start. He glanced around, eyes shifting over the names of the stores. There were so many people for whom he wanted to get presents. Draco, of course, and Lucius, as well as several of his more prominent shadows. His thoughts turned to Hogwarts, and he remembered Hermione and Dean, and Neville and Vince and Greg. He also wanted to pick something up for the Bloody Baron, though he had no idea what sort of gift a ghost might appreciate.

Since he only had two hour apart from Lucius and Draco, their gifts were to be purchased first. Though, the longer he stood there and thought about it, the harder it was to decide what exactly to buy for them.

He toyed with the idea of buying Lucius something to match the first gift he had given, and subsequently, the first gift he had received. The silver ring Lucius had given him was a comforting weight around his finger, and he rarely took it off. Also, Harry had seen the serpentine paperweight he'd transfigured for Lucius in the study, coiled threateningly on top of a stack of parchments on the desk.

So, he mused to himself, some sort of silver snake.

He stopped at several jewelry shops, and while some of them did have silver pendants and broaches that bore the crest of Slytherin, none particularly appealed to Harry. They were beautiful, exquisitely wrought, and works of the finest craftsmen, but they were too impersonal. Many of them were also impractical, and he couldn't picture his first Shadow wearing the ornate pieces in public.

He browsed through the titles in Flourish and Blotts, pausing only to pick up the new autobiography of Draco's favorite Quidditch player, and spent some time perusing the shelves of a stationary store. He found a bottle of rich, green ink that Draco wrote his letters with – pricey stuff, for ink, but Harry knew that his friend was running low.

Thirty minutes later, Harry had a bag of curiosities and trinkets that he'd thought Draco would enjoy, including a full box of chocolate frogs, several packs of Quidditch trading cards, and a set of novelty potions that produced a variety of effects. One of them promised to turn a person's hair bright purple for an hour, and another said it would turn the whole _person_ purple.

It was as he was passing by a smithy that he spotted something. It sat in the window of the adjoining shop, surrounded by dragonhide armor and enchanted daggers. At first he believed he'd just imagined it, but as he walked closer to the display, he found himself smiling.

It was a simple black cane. The pommel was forged of silver in the likeness of a serpent's head, and there were two chips of emerald impressed into slitted eyes.

It was perfect.

He pushed the door of the shop open, a bell jingling above him to signal his entrance. The shop was unbearably hot, and the walls were made of thick mason blocks. There were two stone archways; one was behind the counter at the back of the room, and Harry could see it led to a spiral staircase. The other archway was in the middle of the left wall, and he assumed it led directly to the forge; great gusts of heat whooshed through the opening, and flickers of light and shadowy blurs contorted on the floor.

Glancing around, Harry didn't see anyone, so he moved forward to look at the merchandise. There were no shelves in sight. Instead, armor was displayed on mannequins that bowed to him as he walked by, and swords were hung on the walls with plain, wooden racks.

His feet led him closer to the counter at the rear of the shop, and he heard a deep, rumbling voice boom, "Be right wit' ye, lad."

It came from the forge, and he cautiously walked toward the voice. Suddenly, the room seemed to darken. Harry bit back a cry of fear as a veritable giant ducked through the door, wide shoulders barely squeezing through the confines of the archway.

He was in a different place, the door of his cupboard opening with a creak; Vernon shouldered through the opening, face twisting in anger. Harry backpedaled, bumping into something, and the leering face came closer, and "_Your fault, freak, you made me do this_," reached his ears but didn't fully register because Vernon's fist was already swinging –

A heavy hand touched his shoulder, and Harry flinched away. "Ye alright, lad?"

"Yes," Harry said automatically, "Sorry." Then he shook his head to clear it, and Uncle Vernon was replaced by a tall smith, soot and worry in equal measures on his friendly face.

"Ye sure?" the smith asked, brow furrowed up in concern. "Ye was shakin' like a leaf in the wind."

"I'm sorry," Harry said again, composing himself. "You surprised me."

"Ach," the man said, rocking back on his heels, "Ye'd t'ink after so long ah'd be used to scarin' the wits out o' pint-sized folk like yerself. Sorry, lad. Wot can ah do fer ye?"

"The cane. The one in the window," Harry said stiffly. "I'd like to buy it."

"Would ye, now?" The man lumbered to the front display, pulling back the curtain that separated it from the rest of the store, and lifted the cane carefully. It looked like a wand in his oversized grip. "This be the one?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said.

The man ambled behind the counter and set the cane down on the wooden surface. Up close Harry could see the spectacular craftsmanship that had gone into forging the snake's head, and he reached forward to touch it. The snake's mouth opened soundlessly and it made as if to bite him. Startled, Harry snatched his hand back.

The giant laughed good-naturedly. "Sorry, sorry, lad. Should have warned ye." He stroked the top of the snake's head with one beefy finger, and the mouth closed slowly. "That's twice t'day ah scared ye but ah couldn't help m'self. Seein' it fer yerself makes a deeper impression on clients, ye see?"

Before Harry could ask anything, the man explained, "This lil' beauty's charmed, o'course. Ye need to say the words 'fore she'll let ye touch 'er. If yer still interested in makin' a purchase, ah'll teach ye."

"Does the charm work for more than one person?" Harry asked, thinking it would be silly if he bought the cane and Lucius wasn't able to use it.

"'Course," the man replied, amused. "Be ye warned, lad, if some'un tries to pick 'er up _without_ havin' used the charm, she'll bite 'em well'n good."

"Is..." Harry nibbled his lip, debating on whether or not to refer to the cane as a 'she.' Finally he asked, "Is she poisonous?"

The man nodded. "A bit more per bite, lad. She'll paralyze, ye see? One nip'll wear off'n jus' under five minutes. Three nips'll get ye 'bout an hour, but more'n that? Can't say."

"Is there an antidote?"

The smith looked both surprised and pleased by the question, and he reach forward and carefully twisted the snake's head off of the cane. He showed Harry the inside of the cane, which had been hollowed, and a small vial was snuggled inside the blackwood. "The vial's charmed too. Won't break, no matter wot ye do. That's an exact dose, there, an' it'll replenish after ye use it."

The man screwed the pommel back onto the cane.

Harry relaxed a little as he studied the cane. It really was perfect.

"I'll take it," he told the man, and spent the next few minutes memorizing the charm so that he could teach it to Lucius. He performed the charm so that he could carry the cane, and the man wrapped it in an inconspicuous brown tube. It was an expensive purchase, but Harry felt the price was fair, considering the quality and consideration that had gone into its making.

He also bought a stirring rod for Avery, which the smith promised wouldn't melt in even the most corrosive potions, and a matching set of ornamental daggers for Crabbe and Goyle. Each hilt had been carved with a parade of magical beasts, so beautifully drawn that they almost looked as if they were moving. Because of the cost, the smith had also thrown in a small scrying crystal that dangled on the end of a silver necklace; Harry decided it would be a suitable gift for Genevieve.

Harry couldn't think of an appropriate gift for Peter, and eventually settled on a book entitled_ Exploring the Gift of Anima_ by Joshua Redheart, which offered several interesting theories and uses of being an Animagus. When the cleric at the counter advertised a subscription to several magazines, Harry bought_ A Wizard's Garden_ for Zabini.

Satisfied with his purchases, Harry headed toward the Leaky Cauldron. He still had twenty minutes to spare and wasn't in any hurry. Turning a corner, he collided with someone, and the impact nearly barreled him over. Before he even looked up to see who he'd bumped into, his forehead began to ache.

Professor Quirrell stammered, "T-t-terribly s-sorry, Mr. P-potter. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Professor," Harry replied, taking a careful step back from the older man. "I'm sorry for bumping into you."

"Q-q-quite alright," Quirrell replied "G-g-glad you're not h-hurt." His voice became softer, barely above a whisper, and his eyes seemed to blacken as he continued, "Wouldn't want to _damage_ the savior of the wizarding world, now would we?"

"Your stutter, Professor," Harry reminded him gently.

Not that it really mattered, Harry amended in his own mind. The people around them continued to pass by, busy with the task of Christmas shopping. No one paid any mind to the young student and his teacher engaged in what appeared to be pleasant conversation.

"How remiss of me," Quirrell said, sounding vaguely amused. He made no effort to correct himself, though, and he continued, "You're enjoying your vacation, I trust?"

"I am," Harry replied.

"Lucius' hospitality is impeccable, I'm sure."

"It is."

At his answer, his scar gave a slight twinge that felt remotely akin to satisfaction, and Quirrell smiled – a dark, angry smile that made Harry shiver beneath his warm cloak.

There was a moment of silence between them, and Harry wondered why the older man was bothering to talk to him. It wasn't as though he could attack with so many witnesses present. And asking him about Lucius' hospitality, of all things! It was beyond stupid, but apparently Quirrell – Voldemort – didn't think that such a question would arouse his suspicion. If Harry hadn't already known of Lucius' former alignment to Voldemort, Quirrell's careless statement would have immediately roused his curiosity, his ugly little habit.

Only a child would fail to add up the facts. But then, Harry mused, people seemed to mistake him for such on a daily basis.

"Well, I must be on my way," Quirrell said finally. "I do hope you enjoy Christmas to its fullest, as I intend it to be your last. Good day, Mr. Potter." He turned away.

The headache sharpened, taking on a darker edge that made Harry wince. His palm came up to cover his scar, and he felt a thick stickiness through his cap. Politely he replied, "Merry Christmas, Professor Quirrell."

Taking a chance, he added softly, "Lord Voldemort."

The professor halted mid-step, and Harry heard a low chuckle, followed by a scratchy voice – distantly familiar to him, though he couldn't remember where he'd heard it before – which whispered, "Indeed."

Harry watched the man walk away, then resumed his trek towards the Leaky Cauldron. Lucius was already there, sitting calmly at one of the tables with a glass of port in hand.

Harry made his way over, carefully setting his bags down before he took a seat.

"Harry." The elder Malfoy greeted him with a smile. "I trust your shopping went well?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied. "Thank you." He glanced around the floor of the table, and spotted a small bag of wrapped presents.

Lucius noted his gaze and said, "I haven't quite finished with my purchases, but the rest will be made another day." He lifted his glass to his lips and savored a slow sip.

"I bumped into Voldemort while I was shopping."

Lucius was an aristocrat; he did not choke. He did, however, spray Harry with a fine mist of port.

"I'm sorry," the elder Malfoy said almost immediately, and he cast a cleaning charm that dried Harry while removing the faint, alcoholic scent. Then he downed the rest of his port, tilting his head back to drain the glass. Following a deep, shaky breath, he said in a relatively calm voice, "Could you repeat that, Harry? I think I must have misheard you."

Softly, and only for Lucius' ears, Harry repeated the statement.

"Ah." Raising a hand, Lucius flagged down one of the servers.

The man, a young wizard in his twenties, appeared by Lucius' side and queried, "Another glass of port, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Scotch," Lucius replied. His eyes sidled to Harry, then shifted back to the server. "Double. No ice."

It wasn't until the waiter returned with the drink, which Lucius promptly downed, that he said, "Now, Harry, you were saying?"

By the time Draco arrived – carrying two large bags, brimming with decoratively wrapped parcels – Harry had run through his encounter with Quirrell twice. Lucius had absorbed the first telling silently, then asked Harry to repeat it. The second time, the tale had been riddled with questions from the older man.

His first Shadow had asked, only once, if Harry was positive he'd met the Dark Lord and not a relatively harmless – if radically disturbed – Professor Quirrell.

Harry had peeled up his cap with some difficulty, and some of the crusted blood from his scar had flaked off in the process. The mark was still throbbing from the encounter, and Harry wondered if it looked as nasty as it felt.

Lucius' hands trembled, just a little. He gently touched the scar, the pad of his thumb soft on Harry's forehead. He did not mention the question of authenticity again.

Upon entering the establishment, Draco spotted them immediately. As the blonde boy maneuvered his way to their table, Lucius said softly, "We will discuss this later."

Harry nodded his assent, and the issue was dropped.

"Father, Harry, I found the most spectacular gifts!" Draco was practically glowing with childish exuberance as he plopped down in a free chair.

"Draco," Lucius greeted, but his voice carried a steely undercurrent.

Before his eyes, Harry watched Draco transform. The exhilarated smile faded and was replaced by a bored twist of lips. The eyes, twin gems of amusement, hardened to cool glass. Draco's back went rigid as he corrected his posture, straightening from boyish sprawl to elegant poise, and his feet rested flat on the floor and did not move.

"My apologies, father," Draco drawled. "Please forgive my impertinence; I'd forgotten."

"Christmas has that effect, I've found," Lucius replied easily; Draco's shoulders relaxed slightly.

As Lucius proceeded to order a light lunch for the three of them, Draco glanced at Harry. He didn't smile, but his eyes softened a little, and Harry was left to ponder the bizarreness of Malfoy public decorum as they ate in silence.

The rest of the day was a blur as they leisurely explored the shops. Harry found a spool of ribbon called "Forget-me-Knots" and he'd snatched the curiosity up with Neville in mind. The instructions said to cut off a length of ribbon and tie it around one's finger while reciting what it was that needed to be remembered. As the event drew nearer, the ribbon would change from blue to purple to red. Finally, when the knot was touched, all the wearer had to do was ask, "What have I forgotten?" and the ribbon would play the message back.

Harry's second windfall of the day was a book called _Ministry Occupations of Portentous Import_ by Cornelius Fudge. The book was so riddled with loopholes and obsolete policies that only an idiot would have it published – or in this case, the Minister of Magic – and Harry decided it would be a perfect way to introduce Hermione Granger into his fold of shadows. Having spent time with the Ravenclaw, Harry knew how intrigued she was by the ruling body of the wizarding world. If he could show her how ridiculous the Ministry was, how far it missed it's mark when it came to what a government was _supposed_ to do, Harry was sure she'd be interested in helping him change it.

In the breaks between class, Harry had found that Hermione was a brilliant witch. She was intelligent, clever, and above all, fair. He knew she would be a valuable asset, if only he could show her what he and his shadows were trying to do.

The problem resided in that he couldn't simply tell her.

As he tucked the book into his bag of gifts, he was struck with a memory of his garden, of sowing the seeds during fiery autumn, surrounded by brittle leaves of red and gold. He remembered the care it took to tend them, coaxing them gently as spring breezed by. He remembered the curious feeling in his throat when he'd been rewarded by glorious shades of purple and blue as the flowers blossomed towards the sun.

He also remembered how that feeling had sunk to his stomach as Aunt Petunia clipped them, brutally scissoring the stems before shoving them in a bottlenecked vase.

Harry shrugged off the memory and pondered what to buy for Dean.

By the end of the day, both boys were exhausted but satisfied. Harry was especially pleased with the gift he'd found for the Bloody Baron, and he looked forward to when he would next see the ghost.

Lucius apparated them to Malfoy Manor, and actually had to carry Draco to the bedroom because the blonde boy was so tired that he'd tripped over his own feet. Harry trailed behind the pair, unable to look away from the strong, warm arms that enveloped Draco, and the tussled blonde head that rested lightly on Lucius' shoulder.

Harry liberated his pockets of the assorted treasures he'd found at Gringotts, unceremoniously dumping them into one of his trunk's compartments. He lifted Samson from around his neck, placing the lazy snake to one side of the pillow, then crawled into bed. Against his will, his eyes were drawn to the other bed, where Lucius had laid Draco, tucking him beneath the covers. Something stirred inside him as the man reached down and brushed his hand along Draco's forehead, tucking a lock of hair behind the curve of one ear.

The emotion swirled in his mind, black as blood, and for the very briefest of moments, Harry found he didn't like Draco much at all.

Alarmed at the irrational thought, Harry looked away, eyes darting around the room for something to focus on. They ghosted over Hedwig's perch, but the ebony owl wasn't there, and inexplicably – though he didn't want to look, though he didn't want to feel – his eyes found Lucius just as the older man knelt to press a kiss against Draco's cheek.

Lucius stood, a tiny smile on his lips, and took a step towards Harry's bed. The older man visibly started when his eyes met Harry's, and his smile fell. "Forgive me, Harry," he said softly, so as not to wake Draco, "I had thought you'd have fallen asleep as soon as your head touched the pillow."

Harry simply watched him and said nothing, partly because he had nothing to say, but mostly because he didn't trust his own voice.

The elder Malfoy shifted – not uncomfortably, not Lucius Malfoy – beneath the weight of Harry's gaze, and finally said, "You must be exhausted. Tomorrow, after dinner, we will talk."

"Yes, sir," Harry replied dutifully.

Lucius moved as if to stand by Harry's bed. But his footfalls shifted and he walked to the doorway of the room instead. He paused, then said gently, "Goodnight, my Lord."

"Goodnight," Harry echoed. He closed his eyes, resolutely ignoring the burning in his stomach as he told himself, over and over until he fell asleep, that Draco was his best friend.

o

The next day, Harry found that whatever illness had plagued him the night before had faded away as Draco led him through the magical menagerie that Malfoy Manor housed. The two boys spent their time exploring a variety of bizarre and gorgeous creatures, which had prompted Harry to ask why Draco didn't recognize a portion of the menagerie. Draco confided that his father often procured at least two or three new species each week, usually from the beasts that had been unfortunate enough to land in care of the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.

The first section of the menagerie was a dark room, similar to a cave, but there were ovular sections of the walls that looked to have been carved out by a giant spoon, and glass sheets that covered them. A peek inside the first few "cages" revealed an assortment of insects – Billywigs and Dugbugs, Flobberworms and Lacewig Flies.

Further down were the reptiles, and Harry noted that all of these naturalistic cages had small pools of water to one side and magical fixtures that simulated the sunlight to the other.

"Look at that ugly sucker," Draco grinned, pointing to a huge Horned Toad. The creature in question blinked it's beady black eyes, giving them a cursory glance, then dove into the pool of water and disappeared from sight.

"I think you've offended him," Harry replied with a small smile.

Draco rolled his eyes. Then he grabbed Harry's hand and dragged him a little further into the cave. "Now for the best bit!"

"Best bit?" Harry echoed, the hated curiosity creeping into his voice.

"Well, yeah, Harry," the blonde boy stated, as if it were obvious. "I don't know anyone else who call talk to snakes, and father has a whole slew of them. The C.D.D.C. frowns on more species of them than anything else."

"C.D.D – oh." Harry nearly snorted when he realized what a silly question that would have been. And it was no wonder the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures didn't like snakes, considering their direct association to the Slytherin House, and subsequently several Dark Wizards.

As they drew closer to the section of snakes, Harry began to distinguish several sibilant hisses, and he paused to listen.

_/ - thisss isss not a matter of dissscussion, Medusssa. /_

_/ Me thinksss it isss, Sssalomon. Me thinksss you are sssimply blinded by your misssplaced adoration of houssse Malfoy. /_

_/ Chill out, amiga. Sssal hasss - /_

_/ Sssalvador, if you addresss me ssso familiarly again, I ssswear - /_

_/ Massster is coming – no man isss my Massster – Ma... ma...sssssss... – /_

_/ Consssipio, Sssitus, pleassse control your other head. /_

_/ sssilence /_

The last sentence was spoken by a snake Harry hadn't heard before. Something about the hiss was... different. It seemed softer than the rest, but carried a greater weight, and all of the other snakes immediately quieted, save Medusa who hissed sulkily, _/ Asssp, pleassse. Let me eat the houssse elf and – /_

_/ medusssa /_

The rebuke in that one word was so thick that Harry swore he could taste it with his tongue. Medusa fell silent.

Harry became aware that Draco was waving a hand in front of his face. "Harry? Harry?"

"Sorry," Harry replied, and he took a few more steps until the tanks of the snakes he'd been eavesdropping on surrounded him.

The first creature that caught his attention was an Occamy. Harry recognized it from one of his books – a silver winged-snake that stood on two legs, with a fantastic metallic plume. Occamy were native to India and the Far East, from what he recalled, and they were carnivores.

The next cage housed a Runespoor, a dangerous snake with three separate heads. The cage after that didn't look like it held a snake at all; rather, it contained a giant red ball of fire, and Harry cheated and looked at the identifying plaque on the wall. It read "Ashwinder."

On the opposite side of the cave were two more tanks. The first held a relatively normal snake, and the plaque read "Boa Constrictor." The last tank appeared to be empty, but the plaque said "Asp," so Harry assumed that the snake was in there somewhere.

The snakes remained silent during his scrutiny.

Draco elbowed him suddenly and whispered, "Well, go on! Talk to them!"

Strangely bashful, Harry rubbed the back of his head with one hand and said the first thing that came to mind.

_/ Um. Hello. /_

All of the snakes jolted in their tanks, and Harry thought he saw a faint movement from the asp's cage. Almost as one, they breathed, _/ A ssskin-brother! /_

One of the Runespoor's heads – the middle one – hissed dementedly, _/ Ma... ma... sssssss... /_

The left head snapped violently at the middle head and responded vehemently, _/ No, Damnosssusss! No man isss my Massster! /_

_/ The Massster isss here, /_ the right head stated with calm certainty.

The left head bit at the middle head – Damnosus? – and Damnosus bit at himself.

_/ Forgive them, /_ came a hiss from the ball of fire. Harry could just barely make out the faint outline of a small serpent inside the flames. _/ It isss... ssstandard... for their sssort to act asss sssuch. I am Sssalomon, ssskin-brother. /_

_/ Hola, amigosss, /_ the boa constrictor piped in. _/ Sssalvador, at your ssservice. /_

Grudgingly, the Occamy added, _/ Medusssa. /_

Salvador hissed again, angling his head toward the Runespoor, and introduced, _/ The left head isss Sssitusss. The right isss Consssipio. The loco ssserpent in the middle isss Damnosssusss. /_

_/ My name is Harry. /_ Harry greeted them, bowing politely to each tank. The words came to him, an echo of years passed, and he spoke them as he had once done to Samson. _/ Strength in the darkness, Medusa, Salomon, Salvador. /_ He paused to make sure he had the names straight in his own head and continued, _/ Situs, Damnosus, Consipio. /_

And, very carefully, he turned to the last, empty cage, to the snake who hadn't spoken, and said, _/ Strength in the darkness, Asp. /_

_/ curiousss /_ came the reply. _/ well met, brother of my ssskin /_

Harry couldn't see Asp, but it was comforting that he hadn't muddled the greeting up. Somehow he got the impression that Asp was the "leader" of these serpents, and that offending him wouldn't be a good idea.

Draco, practically bouncing on his heels, interrupted Harry's thoughts as he demanded, "Well? Well? What'd they say?"

"They introduced themselves," Harry replied, and he told Draco each of the snake's names.

When he got to Salomon, the fiery ball hissed, _/ It isss an honor to ssspeak with you, after ssso many yearsss, youngessst of houssse Malfoy. /_

Harry translated, and Draco preened.

For the next few hours, the boys spoke at length with the serpents, and Harry translated for Draco. The interactions of the creatures with one another made him curious – Salomon, it seemed, was a pleasant snake who deeply respected the Malfoys, though Harry couldn't determine where this respect came from. Medusa was quite cynical, and some of her comments were off-putting and rude. Salvador seemed friendly enough, and had a unique brand of humor.

The Runespoor was most confusing. The right head, Consipio, continued to call him Master, and of the three, seemed the only one capable of real conversation. The left head, Situs, reacted violently whenever the word "Master" was mentioned, and whenever it spoke, it's voice was full of hatred and rage. The middle head, Damnosus, was clearly deranged, and would repeat choice words back, very, very slowly and with great pauses between syllables. For most of the conversation, though, Damnosus seemed content to gnaw at his own flesh.

Last, the self-named Asp, who said very little. When he did let out a soft-spoken hiss, the other snakes listened in reverent silence. Their behaviors were most curious, but he tried not to dwell on the details much, because Draco seemed to be having fun.

Finally, after they'd said their goodbyes and were ready to explore the rest of the menagerie, Asp hissed quietly, _/ come back sssoon, brother of my ssskin, come back and ssspeak with me again /_

As they continued along the cave towards the exit, Harry heard Consipio murmur_, / The Massster is going, /_ to which Situs replied gratingly, _/ No man isss my Massster. /_

It was getting late by the time Draco and Harry made their way through the pens of magical horses, Abraxans and Hippogriffs. They still hadn't reached the birds or the fish, and had barely touched upon the larger mammals. Deciding that they would continue another day, they took a shortcut through the stables to return to the Manor.

Draco came to a sudden halt, starring at a pen with two giant, winged horses. "Huh," the blonde boy muttered. "That's odd."

Wondering what his friend was scrutinizing, Harry moved closer to the pen to examine the skeletal, black beasts. The two horses sensed him, apparently, because they cantered over, and Harry found himself staring into twin pairs of stunningly white eyes that reminded him of lightning.

"What's odd about them, Draco?" Harry asked curiously, resisting the urge to reach forward and pet the dragon-like muzzle, to see if it felt like velvet.

The blonde boy looked at him strangely, and pointed to the pen. "Well, father _never_ leaves a pen empty like that." Before Harry could comment, Draco trotted over and read the plaque aloud. "Thestrals? I don't think I've heard of them before. Maybe they're invisible."

"Draco," Harry protested quietly, "They're right there." He gestured to the creatures, who – disconcertingly – seemed to be staring at his forehead.

"Where?" Draco asked, scrunching his eyes up to scour the pen. Curious blue passed right over the two Thestrals, not registering them.

Harry pointed again. "There."

"You're not having me on, are you?" Draco muttered, and he looked right through them. After a moment, the blonde became bored, and he shrugged, "I'll ask father about it later. Anyway, dinner's probably ready, so we should hurry back."

With one last, fleeting look at the Thestrals, Harry followed Draco back to the Manor.

o

Later that night, a house elf guided Harry to Lucius' study. Draco had said he was tired from their day's adventure and retired to bed early. Lucius, looking somewhat haggard, though Harry couldn't imagine why, had asked if Harry could wait for him in the study.

So, Harry waited. He stood in the doorway, not sure enough of himself to enter the room completely. It was a small study, but comfortable, with two rosewood chairs that had plush, upholstered red cushions. There was a tasteful, oriental carpet, red with black and gray designs, and several bookcases leaned against one of the walls. The stone fireplace crackled merrily, casting shadows to dance in the corners of the room.

With a soft sigh, Harry closed his eyes and leaned up against the wall as he waited for Lucius to arrive. It happened unexpectedly – the cool stone blocks pulled him in, happily offering up their newest memories, their stories.

"Harry and Draco are playing today, exploring the menagerie, or so Draco told me." The words were a whisper, faint and echoing.

"Ah, to be so incredibly naïve," came the quiet reply from across the room.

A log in the fireplace cracked and broke, sending up a small explosion of red fairy dust, and Harry saw Lucius sitting in one of the plush chairs. The older man was hazy, blurring just a little around the edges.

Lucius sighed, leaning back in his chair. "What do you want, Peter?"

"I want a lot of things, Lucius." Peter stepped forward into the light, and the shadows played across his face as he starred into the flames of the fireplace. "I want to go back in time and kill my younger self before he betrays the Potters. I want Sirius Black out of Azkaban so I can offer him my life, if that's what it takes to make things right. I want to have been the one to follow Hagrid to the Dursleys all those years ago, so that I could steal Harry away to somewhere no one could ever hurt him."

Harry saw Lucius' jaw clench.

Plain, brown eyes shifted, taking in the blonde's tense shoulders. Peter's voice softened. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

"Was there something you wished to discuss?" Lucius asked quietly, dangerously.

Peter sighed, the tiny puff of air displacing his short bangs. "Don't be like that. You may be able to terrify everyone else with the broody act, but I've been by your side for nearly fifteen years."

"You used to be such a placid little rodent," the blonde said with a sneer. "Whatever changed?"

The reproach and hurt in Peter's voice was palpable. "Forgiveness does that to a man." He sighed. "I can see there's no talking to you today; I'll come back later."

Before Peter could step back into the shadows, Lucius asked suddenly, "Why didn't we save him, Peter?"

Peter paused, ruefully running his fingers through his hair. His voice carried the weariness of a man who'd had this conversation a thousand times before. "Because we didn't care, Lucius."

Lucius remained silent, moodily staring into the fireplace.

"Think about it logically," Peter continued gently. "For the first six years of his life, we didn't _care_ about him. We wanted to know how he'd done it – how a mere baby had destroyed our Lord – but we didn't care about _him_. We knew he wasn't treated well, but by the time we learned to love him as a parent loves a child, he was so far withdrawn from the rest of the world that it's possible nothing we could have done would have helped."

"We should have rescued him, Peter. We should have taken him away from those... those _Muggles_ and destroyed them for daring to lay a hand to him."

"How? Tell me, Lucius, how could we have rescued him? Even _if_ we could have removed him from that house without immediately alerting the Ministry, how do you propose we could have kept him hidden? If he disappeared, the entire _world_ would have searched for him. We'd have had a year, two at the most, but they would have caught us eventually."

"We should have tried."

"Should have. Didn't. It was a necessary evil. We both know what that boy endured, and we both know why it had to be done. While other children were playing Exploding Snap, he was unconsciously mending broken bones. As other children learned the joy of a loving parent, he learned the harshest betrayal this world has to offer. Where other children see black and white, he sees the shades of gray between."

"Those are painful lessons, Peter," Lucius murmured.

Peter slammed his fist into the wall, startling Harry with his intensity. "But he _LEARNED_ them. He did not break. He did not falter. He learned, and because of that, he has the power to the mend the rifts in this world. He has the experience to guard against anyone who'll try to take advantage of him. He has the knowledge to differentiate between what lines should and should not be _crossed_."

"He is a child who believes that he is nothing more than a waste, a freak, and a good _fuck_."

"We've all made choices we regret, Lucius."

"Then tell me, Peter," Lucius breathed raggedly, "Tell me it's worth it. Tell me it's worth the scars on his body. Tell me it's worth the tears he doesn't know how to shed. Tell me it's worth the confusion in his eyes every time he laughs because he's so far removed from his own heart that he doesn't know what it is to feel."

"I can't," Peter replied softly. "But I swear to you, Lucius, that everything we have done, we did because there was no other way."

"How can I forgive myself, Peter?"

"Talk to him. Explain to him. He'll forgive you."

"Only because he never learned why he shouldn't."

Peter flinched.

There was a moment of silence, and Peter said softly, "He is our Lord."

Lucius did not reply, and Peter closed his eyes and stepped back into the shadows. For a long time, Lucius sat, staring blindly into the burning fire. Finally, he whispered to the empty room, "He is a child."

Softer still, he said, "He is my child."

Then he buried his face in his hands, and he wept.

Harry watched the man who had once sat beside him as he tended his garden, remembered the steely blue eyes behind the white mask, and the soft voice that had taught him of the wizarding world. He remembered the previous night and how the older man had paused because Harry was _awake_ – had he been asleep, would he have dreamed the ghost of those lips upon his cheek?

He felt something in his throat tighten, not quite similar to what had ailed him the night before, but he didn't understand what it meant any more than he understood the purpose of Lucius' tears.

"Harry?"

Abruptly, Harry snapped back into focus. He was standing in the same room, leaning against the wall, and the fireplace continued to burn. He noticed Lucius' concerned face floating in front of him and realized it had been the older man's voice that had pulled him from the memory.

"Lucius." Harry greeted the older man softly.

"Are you all right, Harry?" Lucius inquired gently. "You looked as if you were miles away."

"No, sir," Harry said. "I was right here."

"No need for formalities when it's just the two of us, my Lord," the older man teased with a grin. He gestured for Harry to sit in one of the plush, study chairs, and he took the other one for himself.

Once they were settled, the talk began.

Lucius revealed, "After your first letter reached me, I had a few of my contacts in the Ministry look into Quirrell. Apparently he had a rather acute case of wanderlust in his youth." The older man pulled a roll of parchment from inside his robe, handing it to Harry. "Mostly it's cut and dry – a few weeks in a variety of villages, spanning from Germany to the Far East. There is one noticeable discrepancy though, which occurred three years ago. He'd been in Romania for roughly two months, studying vampires, and he disappeared."

Harry unrolled the parchment, a map that detailed where Quirrell had been with bright, red arrows. The margin held notes, how long he'd stayed in each village and what he'd been studying.

Lucius continued, "The local authorities reported him missing, and it was believed that he'd had a run in with one of the nastier vampires in the area. They searched for him, found nothing, and he was presumed dead. A few month later, he showed up in a village roughly twenty miles away, wearing a turban that reeked heavily of garlic and stuttering apologies to his long dead mother."

Handing the map back to Lucius, Harry asked, "What?"

The elder Malfoy waved his hand absently, "Apparently she'd warned him that his wanderlust would get him into trouble and he hadn't listened. The authorities reported that after his appearance, Quirrell was most anxious to return to London to settle into a less dangerous occupation."

"A teacher at Hogwarts," Harry suggested.

"Not quite," Lucius replied. "He spent some time pushing papers for a small company that deals with the relocation of Boggarts. It wasn't until this year that he applied for the D.A.D.A. position at Hogwarts. Either he knew you were attending, or something else drew him there."

"Third floor corridor on the right hand side," Harry murmured under his breath.

Lucius blinked. "What?"

Harry shook his head. "Nothing. It's just... during the Halloween feast, I think he found whatever he was looking for. Headmaster Dumbledore warned the students at the beginning of the year – not to go into the Forbidden Forest, but also about a corridor in Hogwarts itself."

"Curious," the older man replied, looking thoughtful. "There was a break-in at Gringotts around that time, from what I recall. Quite an affair, considering the building is thought to be impenetrable. Tell me, Harry," he urged, "What exactly happened on Halloween?"

Harry relayed the events of Halloween, careful to detail Quirrell's ability to talk to trolls and his thoughts on the dark energy that had swept through Hogwarts' halls. Lucius seemed quite pleased when Harry explained how he'd incapacitated the troll, and startled as Harry couldn't explain exactly _how_ he'd ended up in Draco's room.

"Not the wand or the words," the elder Malfoy had murmured, more to himself than Harry.

Back and forth, they tossed out theories – was Quirrell actually Voldemort? Had the man simply been possessed during his travels? Or was there a greater connection that they were missing?

Harry decided nothing more could be done. At least, not until he returned to school and there was a chance to investigate the man more thoroughly. Lucius wasn't satisfied with this, admonishing, "My Lord, you're much too important to place in such danger."

"Short of pulling me out of school, I don't see any alternative," Harry pointed out rationally. "And by keeping an eye on Professor Quirrell, I've got a better chance of avoiding any danger he plans to throw my way."

Seeing how troubled Lucius looked, Harry amended, "I'll have Draco send you anything I find out. And if I'm in immediate danger, I'll contact you myself."

"How?" Lucius asked, curious.

Harry blinked. He pointed to where the thin bolt of lighting was covered by Lucius' sleeve. At Lucius puzzled look, Harry explained, "I can signal you with that, just as you or any of my shadows can signal one another. Didn't you realize?"

The elder Malfoy shifted in his chair, looking decidedly uncomfortable when Harry used the word 'signal.' "No," he said, "I had not. I – we – had thought the mark was simply to verify who is part of our fold, and who is not."

"That's a silly reason to mark someone in such a visible spot," Harry replied, puzzled by Lucius' discomfort. Then he realized that Voldemort's mark had also been used as a signal, and that being 'called' with it had been painful.

Wanting to allay his Shadow's unvoiced fear, he activated the mark.

For no reason at all, Lucius smiled. A look of wonder spread across his face, and he rolled his sleeve back, awed as the lightning pulsed a gentle shade of violet.

As the signal faded, and with it the curious – but pleasant – tingle, Lucius glanced at Harry. "You said... I can contact others in this way?"

Harry nodded. "Just touch it and think about who you want to call. They'll feel it, and they can use it as a focus to apparate directly to you."

Lucius rolled his sleeve down, but the corners of his mouth were still upturned. Then he leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face, and said, "I know you've had a few problems at school aside from Quirrell. Is there anything else you needed to discuss?"

Off guard at the abrupt switch in conversation, Harry frowned and nibbled his lip.

Sensing his distress, Lucius expression softened. "Harry, you are my Lord. I'm here to advise you, because you're still so young, and I know that there must be more bothering you than what you've told me in your letters. Please, let me help."

Harry bit his lip a little harder.

"Tell me, Harry," Lucius said, and Harry looked at the carpet and opened his mouth and told him.

He told Lucius how everything was all mixed up, and while trying to blend in as a normal student at Hogwarts, he feared he'd only made himself stand out more. He told Lucius how he seemed to be tied up in trivial matters – Quidditch and class assignments, detentions with Snape and conversations with the Bloody Baron – that drained him of his all of his time and energy.

A house elf popped in briefly and relayed, "Master Malfoy, Master Snape is here and wanting to see you, sir."

Lucius waved the creature off, and turned his attention back to Harry, who continued to stare at the carpet.

He told Lucius about his conversations with Dumbledore – how the man seemed to already know everything – and about the controversy of his duel sorting – how it was impossible to balance himself in such a way that he could befriend members of all the houses. He told Lucius about Zacharias Smith, the Hufflepuff who had approached him with such zealousness that it almost disturbed him, and he told Lucius that keeping his own secrets was difficult enough without having to keep those of the children around him.

The same house elf, looking quite distraught, popped in again and said, "Melfy is so sorry, Master Malfoy. Master Snape is here and is wanting to see you, very badly, sir."

Lucius sighed and responded, "Severus can wait for a few minutes. Tell him I am otherwise engaged and will be with him as soon as possible." And he turned his attention back to Harry, who continued to stare at the carpet.

Finally, in a very soft voice that was barely audible over the crackling fire, he told Lucius about his library, the books that his shadows had so generously provided for him, and how he'd barely read through any of them. How, in his first three months at Hogwarts, he hadn't even been to Hogwarts' Library, his only real purpose in going to school at all.

He told Lucius, in a very small voice, that he was afraid of failing his shadows.

Lucius was silent for a moment. He slid out of his chair and knelt on the floor, his legs obscuring Harry's view of the carpet. "Harry."

Harry said nothing.

"Harry," Lucius repeated gently. "Look at me."

Harry bit his lip and raised his eyes hesitantly. Of all the things that he'd expected to see on the older man's face – disappointment, resentment, anger – none of them had prepared him for the loving smile that teased the corner's of Lucius' mouth.

"Harry," Lucius sighed. "How could you ever believe that I – we – could be anything but proud of you?" He laid a reassuring hand on Harry's leg. "You have seven _years_ to make use of the Library. Use this first one to settle in."

Suddenly, the door flung open violently and banged against the wall. Severus Snape stormed into the room, face red with anger. His sibilant, silky voice pitched low as he growled, "Malfoy, I swear–"

Snape stopped abruptly, as if he'd slammed into an invisible wall. Dark eyes took in the scene – the quaint fire – the shadows that danced on the walls – Harry perched awkwardly on the plush chair, a faint, uncertain blush staining his cheeks – and Lucius on his knees, elegant fingers splayed delicately on Harry's thigh.

Lucius stood smoothly, an innocent smile on his face. "Harry, dear boy, I think it would be best if you retired to your room for the night."

Unsure of what was happening, but mindful of the game he knew Lucius was playing, Harry stood immediately. He swayed on his feet as he replayed Lucius kind words in his head again and again.

Snape's eyes darkened as Lucius reached out a hand to steady Harry.

Harry looked up at Lucius uncertainly. How should he act? What would be the proper thing, in Snape's eyes at least, to say to the father of his friend?

He settled on a quiet, "Yes, sir. Thank you," and turned his attention to Professor Snape. The older man was actually _trembling_, his expression fluctuating between angry and horrified as his gaze darted between Lucius and Harry.

"Professor," Harry acknowledged politely.

"Mr. Potter," Snape responded in a tight, controlled voice. "If you will _excuse_ Mr. Malfoy and I, we have some rather pressing business to discuss."

Harry nodded, then headed to the door. He looked back at the two men – Lucius' apologetic gaze, though Harry wasn't sure what his shadow was sorry for, and the stiff set of Snape's shoulders – and said softly, "Goodnight."

Behind him, he heard Lucius purr, "Not as good as it might have been, Severus."

Harry closed the door with a faint click and walked away before he could hear Snape's reply.

o

The days before Christmas passed quickly, and on Christmas Eve several unexpected guests arrived. When Harry and Draco came down from the bedroom for the day, a house elf popped up and informed them that breakfast would be served in the dining hall.

The pair entered, and Harry was both surprised and pleased to see several of his shadows and their children animatedly conversing as they ate. As soon as Lucius noticed them, he stood with a smile, beckoning them to the head of the table where two seats on Lucius left and right were unoccupied.

As Harry passed by, Crabbe spoke up. "Ah, Harry, come here a moment." He gestured to the older, matronly woman by his side, and smiled, "This is my wife."

Harry bowed politely to her and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

"Please," the woman replied, flustered but pleased, "My name is Prudence, Harry. It's an honor to finally meet you." Her voice was deeper than most of the women he'd met, but he found it both temperate and soothing.

"'Lo, Dray. 'Lo, Harry," Vincent said, and he reached for his fruit cup.

"Vince." Draco grinned and patted his childhood friend on one shoulder.

Before Harry had a chance to say anything, Goyle waved him over. His hand rested on the woman's back beside him, and he introduced her, "My wife, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth surprised him. She was a thin, regal woman, but her eyes were alive with mischief. "Harry Potter," she said as she extended her hand, "It's lovely to meet you, at last."

Uncomfortably, Harry shook her hand. As soon as she released him, he quickly tucked both of his hands into his pockets.

Gregory mumbled something around a mouthful of croissant, and Elizabeth swatted him lightly on the head. "Gregory LeMont Goyle," she said sternly, "Don't talk with your mouth full!"

There was a low chuckle of amusement from around the table, and Gregory turned bright pink. "Sorry, mum," he said contritely. Then he turned to Harry and muttered quietly, "Hiya, Harry."

"Hello, Greg," Harry replied, and he was whisked to another part of the table.

Genevieve Parkinson introduced her husband, a tall, lanky man whose expression bordered on sullen, and Pansy murmured a demure "Hello." Zabini nodded coolly in his direction, and Blaise was a bit more exuberant as he grinned and patted Harry on the back. Harry managed not to flinch, but just barely.

Avery Nott introduced his wife, and Theodore glanced up from his plate, then back down after he'd met Harry's eyes. The Bulstrodes, both shadows, greeted him warmly, and Millicent smiled, "Hallo."

Most of the Slytherin Quidditch team was present as well, seated alongside their parents – his shadows. He made sure to greet each of them personally – "Miles, Adrian, Cassidy, Terrance," – and they nodded to him. Only Marcus Flint made a move to touch him, a friendly handshake, and Harry bore it somehow.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Draco making similar rounds, though he did so much more smoothly. He was full of smiles and handshakes, and casual touches on shoulders, all of which he made seem painfully simple.

Finally, having greeted everyone, the two boys took their seats beside Lucius.

Conversation flowed around them, but Harry was only able to catch snippits –

" – Cannons in the running for the Cup? You must be mad!"

" – lovely, truly lovely. I never did thank you for that cake, did I – "

" – got full marks on his O.W.L.s, my boy did. Eight Outstandings! Bloody genius – "

" – friends with a Muggle-born witch, actually, but Pansy assures me she's brilliant – "

After he'd picked at his fruit cup and eaten half a piece of toast, he glanced at Lucius. When he had the older man's attention, he murmured, "Did everything go all right with Professor Snape, Lucius?"

Lucius' expression darkened for a moment. "As well as can be expected, I think."

Curiously, Draco asked, "When did he visit?"

"A few nights ago," Lucius replied. "It could have gone... better." Then he murmured to Harry, "You may have noticed that not all of us are present, for which I apologize. It would have been rather... suspicious... had I invited anyone who didn't have connections to me as a Malfoy."

Harry nodded in understanding, glancing around the table at the collection of Slytherin and pureblood families. It most assuredly would have drawn unnecessary attention to Lucius, which none of them needed.

Lucius reached for a muffin, plump with blueberries, only to find that Draco had snatched it out from beneath his fingers. The elder Malfoy smiled and waggled his fingers. "Here, now. None of that."

Draco smirked, balancing the muffin on one finger. "I'm sorry, father. First come, first serve, isn't it?"

Lucius actually laughed. "Scamp." Then he whipped out his wand and intoned "_Accio_ muffin," before Draco could get a better grip on it.

The muffin smacked into Lucius' palm, and he unwrapped it casually. Draco pouted as his father took a healthy bite of pastry.

After breakfast, the adults retired to one of the dens, and Harry assumed Lucius would bring them up to date on the situation with Quirrell, as well as inform them of the true purpose of Harry's mark. At first Harry had wondered why it hadn't occurred to Lucius that he could contact other shadows through the mark, but then he'd realized that Voldemort had never shared that particular power with his followers.

"So," Draco said with a grin when he'd realized the adults were gone, "Anyone have any ideas on what to do today?"

Harry glanced around at the children of his shadows, seeing them together (and not under the watchful eyes of a Hogwarts teacher) for the very first time. They seemed so... relaxed, each of them letting down the walls of defensiveness and hostility that they donned during the school year.

Is this what it means to be Slytherin? Harry wondered, taking in each smiling face. To hide oneself so completely from the rest of the world that when the walls are let down, you're someone else entirely? Is this really what it means?

"Your family has a broom shed, doesn't it, Draco?" Marcus asked with a sly smile.

"'Course!" Draco said. "And we've got a pitch."

Adrian and Cassidy shared a knowing look, then grinned as one. "Quidditch match!"

Vincent counted heads and said, "Perfect. Thirteen people. Seeker, Keeper, two Beaters, and two Chasers per team, plus a referee. Volunteers?"

Miles raised a hand immediately, "Keeper."

Marcus, Adrian, and Cassidy said at the same time, "Chaser."

"Keeper," Theodore replied quietly.

Millicent smirked. "Beater."

"Referee," Pansy said after some consideration.

Blaise and Terrance shared a glance.

"Chaser," Terrance said quickly, at the same time that Blaise said, "Beater."

"And me and Greg are both Beaters," Vince concluded, "Which means Dray and Harry are Seekers."

The conversation had happened so quickly that before Harry knew it, he was perched atop a borrowed broom as the exuberant children of his shadows whooped loudly, dodging Bludgers and passing the Quaffle back and forth.

o

The game was interrupted briefly for a light lunch, during which Lucius asked if Harry would join the adults in their discussion. Pansy volunteered to play Seeker, and Harry agreed.

The minute he entered the den, he was surrounded by his shadows. The sheer volume of their questions was overwhelming – "School going well, my Lord?" "Any problems, my Lord?" "Enjoy the books we sent you, my Lord?" – and Harry answered them as best he could.

"All right there, Harry?" came a quiet voice to his left.

Harry spun and exclaimed, "Peter!"

A small smile touched Peter's lips, and the older man knelt down and hugged Harry lightly. "It's good to see you," Peter said as he pulled back.

Lucius invited Harry to sit beside him, which he did, and as he looked around at the familiar faces, he was surprised to see the spouses of his shadows – but not shadows themselves – still present. His curiosity was answered almost immediately as Genevieve Parkinson murmured, "My husband wishes to join us, my Lord. Would you give him your mark?"

Harry blinked.

"My wife wishes to join us, my Lord," Crabbe said, and Goyle echoed the statement.

"I..." Harry paused. "I won't mark them." There was a murmur of surprise before he continued, " I gave my mark to Lucius and Peter, who gave it to you. If you think that they're sincere, you mark them."

Genevieve looked as though she wanted to say something, but Harry raised his hand, struggling to express himself. "I trust you. To do what you think is right, I mean."

Lucius laid his hand on Harry's shoulder. "We treasure that trust, my Lord. But what I believe Genevieve intended to say was that it's _because_ they believe their wives and husbands are sincere that they wish you to mark them."

Confused, Harry asked, "Why?"

Peter, still leaning against the wall, replied, "We feel the mark carries a deeper honor when it's you who gives it."

"Oh," Harry said, and though he still didn't fully understand, he stood beside Genevieve's husband and asked, "What's your name?"

"Thomas," the man said.

"Thomas," Harry echoed quietly, and he marked him. He repeated the ritual with Prudence and Elizabeth. All three of the newly joined shadows looked at him, awed, and touched their marks reverently. It made Harry feel rather uncomfortable.

When he'd taken his seat by Lucius once more, the elder Malfoy cleared his throat, and the real meeting began.

o

That night saw one of the finest Christmas Balls to ever grace Malfoy Manor. The ballroom was as spacious as Hogwarts dining hall and a long table had been set up to one side, catered with festive holiday cuisine. Bowls of Christmas candies and elegant cakes sat beside platters of roast lamb and seasoned vegetables. Cleverly cut cherries and pineapples garnished plates of candied ham, and a fountain of rich apple cider had been set up to one side.

The house elves had outdone themselves, and the stings of silver and red ribbon sparkled from the light of a similarly decorated chandelier suspended from the middle of the ceiling. Sprigs of dried nettles and mistletoe were bound up in bows and pinned along the walls in intervals.

Against his will, Harry's eyes were drawn to the far corner of the room where a large Christmas tree had been set up and decorated with strings of beads and little white candles. Beneath it were piles of presents of all shapes and sized, glittering from the light of the chandelier.

"Come on!" Draco said, reaching for Harry's hand, and all the guests gathered by the tree as presents were passed around an opened.

All of Harry's presents for his shadows were already there, for which he offered a silent 'thank you' to the thoughtful house elves. Harry knew they were his simply because the quality of the wrapping was substandard to the other presents. He'd spent the night before, struggling to make sense of the papers and the ribbons, and had ultimately ended up with fairly passable presentations.

Or so he'd thought. He couldn't help but compare his pitiful efforts to the ornately wrapped gifts around him. Never having wrapped Christmas gifts before, he'd had no basis for comparison.

Draco picked up one of Harry's gifts – the bottle of green ink that Harry had wasted an entire roll of paper attempting to wrap – and teased, "You'd think you'd never wrapped a gift before!" before tearing into the paper. The blonde boy recognized the ink immediately, and grinned in appreciation before moving onto his next gift which turned out to be a Nimbus 2000 from his father.

The air was full of the tattered remains of wrapping paper and ribbon as the children of his shadows tore through their gifts. Theodore received an advanced potion kit from his parents, which he seemed inordinately pleased with. Marcus had also received a new broom, and Pansy and Millicent were comparing a set of sharp dress robes. Nearly everyone had a pile of Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.

Harry himself was overwhelmed with the sheer volume of presents that were pressed into his hands. In keeping with tradition, many of his shadows gave him new volumes to update his library. Avery handed him a gift certificate to the Apothecary, to replenish his potion ingredients, and Genevieve presented him with a gorgeous set of tarot cards "to continue to studies."

There were other gifts in his pile as well. Hermione had sent him a journal embossed with his name, "to keep your notes organized for when I want to borrow them," she teased in the Christmas card attached to the book. Neville's present constituted a small set of vials, filled with carefully dried leaves, clippings of stems, and powdered roots. His card said that he'd grown them all himself, and though none of them were particularly rare specimens, Harry appreciated the thought behind them. All of them were ingredients Snape had instructed them to have at the start of the new semester. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Gregory and Vincent had also received identical vials.

Dean had also sent him a present, in the form of an I.O.U. The Christmas card said that he'd reserved an extra ticket to a soccer game in the summer, something like the World Cup. He asked if Harry would be interested in joining him and his family to the game, and promised that he'd relay the date of the game as soon as it was set.

Harry fervently hoped that Hermione, Neville, and Dean enjoyed the gifts he'd owled out the night before as much as he appreciated what they'd given him.

Each of his shadows thanked him for his gifts to them. Crabbe and Goyle seemed inordinately pleased with the daggers. Genevieve appeared touched by the scrying crystal, and immediately had her husband fasten it around her neck. Avery complimented him on the quality of stirring rod, and Zabini thanked him quietly for the magazine subscription.

When Harry presented Lucius with the serpentine cane – making sure he performed the necessary charm – and relayed the information the smith had given him, the elder Malfoy had been stunned.

"Harry," Lucius murmured, "This is... magnificent."

Harry looked away, feeling awkward. "It seemed to fit you," he replied, and busied himself by opening another gift.

After all presents had been opened and the house elves had cleared away the mess, the ball commenced. An orchestra of instruments had been charmed to play themselves, and Harry watched as his shadows danced into the night, pausing only to chat amiably or serve themselves from the never-ending dishes on the table.

As the ball wore on, the number of guests began to dwindle. They thanked Lucius for a splendid party and said their farewells to both Harry and Draco. By the time the last guest had excused themselves, Harry was exhausted.

With a final "goodnight" to Lucius, Harry and Draco trudged back to their room and readied themselves for bed.

"Harry."

Harry glanced up, and was momentarily stunned as Draco kissed him on cheek. The blonde boy grinned, pointing to the middle of the ceiling where the house elves had inexplicable hung a single sprig of mistletoe.

"Merry Christmas, Harry."

Still stunned, Harry could do nothing but watch as Draco crawled into bed.

Harry touched his cheek, then echoed, "Merry Christmas, Dray."

Both boys were fast asleep, moments after their heads touched their pillows.

o

The night before his return to Hogwarts, Harry dreamed. He dreamed of black void, and though he couldn't see them, of Lucius and Draco.

"Tomorrow you return to Hogwarts, it seems. It was good to have you both here; the house is quite empty without you."

"Father," Draco murmured, "I've a few questions, tonight, if you don't mind."

"I have a few of my own," Lucius replied easily. "I will trade you – one answer for one answer."

"Of course," the boy responded, in a tone that implied it never occurred to him to have it any other way. "Well, first, you know those Thestrals in the menagerie?"

Lucius was silent.

"Why can Harry see them and I can't?" Draco concluded.

There was a sharp inhale of breath, followed by a lengthy, uncomfortable pause. Finally, Lucius answered, with something akin to sorrow in his voice. "Because Harry watched death court his family, and you have not yet met him."

"Father?"

"Thestrals are visible only to those who have seen death, Draco," Lucius explained gently. "You cannot see them now, and I can only hope that you will not see them for many years to come."

Draco took a moment to digest that, and then said quietly, "You can see them."

It was not a question, and so Lucius did not reply.

Lucius asked abruptly, "What are your feelings towards Harry?"

There was no hesitation as Draco replied, "He's my best friend."

Harry could practically hear the smile in Lucius' voice. "I'm glad. It might please you to know that you are likely his first real friend. Human friend, at any rate."

Draco murmured, "It doesn't please me, father."

"Why?"

"Because..." Draco paused, the slightly scuffle of his robes an indication that he was fidgeting. "Because if I'm his first real friend, who did he have before he met me?"

"Your next question, Draco?"

"He..." Draco sounded decidedly uncomfortable. "He's got... scars. On his arms. What are they from?"

"A sordid past that is not my story to tell." Lucius sighed. "And one that I would trade all the riches in this world to rid him of."

"Are you all right, father?" Draco sounded alarmed.

"You ask questions that make me recall certain... memories. One last question, Draco, and I wish to retire for the night. Which of his abilities has Harry revealed to you?"

"He's a parcelmouth," Draco replied promptly. "And he was brilliant in class, those first few days, before he started to hide it. He's Slytherin and Gryffindor, which I guess should count for something. Oh! And a genius Seeker."

"That's all?"

"There's more?"

At this, Lucius laughed. Harry thought it sounded forced, as if the older man was consciously trying to lighten the mood. "I will not answer that, my son, else you'd have to answer another of my questions to make us even, and I do wish to sleep tonight."

"Not true!" Draco protested. "You asked 'that's all?' so we should be dead even."

"You answered my question in the form of another question. Had you said, 'yes,' first, I would be obligated to answer you. Second, my question was clarification of a previous question, and not a new question in its own right, and so, by default, is not valid." Lucius sounded amused, but Harry recognized his tone of voice for what it was. Classroom-speak.

Draco was silent as he mulled that over in his mind. Finally, he responded, sounding a bit petulant, "It was still a question."

"Semantics, but my first point makes the second rather moot, doesn't it? A Slytherin leaves themselves more than one way out. Remember that."

The voices began to fade away, and the last thing Harry heard was Draco as he murmured, "Yes, father. Goodnight."

When Harry awoke the next morning, he knew he'd been dreaming, though for the life of him, he couldn't remember what about.

The pair of boys returned to Hogwarts, accompanied by Lucius Malfoy. Lucius hugged his son cordially, then rested his hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry flinched, a subtle shift beneath the robes of his school uniform, and he cast a bashful smile to his first Shadow, knowing that Lucius would recognize the unspoken apology for what it was.

Perhaps it was because of the start of the coming semester that his nerves were so frayed. After all, Lucius had hugged Harry before, had touched his forehead with a father's hands, and it hadn't bothered him. Much.

Still, Harry was fairly certain that Draco hadn't noticed his flinch, so he didn't worry himself about it.

From a darkened corridor across the way, Severus Snape watched this display through black, narrow eyes - how familiarly Lucius touched Potter, and how his hand lingered on the boy's shoulder. And, most damning in those eyes, the near imperceptible flinch, and the skittish smile on Potter's lips.

o


End file.
